WRA College Essays 2015

W e s t e r n

R e s e r v e

A c a d e m y

COLLEGE ESSAYS 2015

Introduction The College Counseling Office is very excited and proud to share with you our annual College Essay Collection. For the third year, we engaged our seniors in a blind essay competition, and the essays contained here include the three top place winners as well as some additional exemplary essays.

In these pages, you will travel to Heidelberg, Germany, to China, to Calcutta and Costa Rica. You will explore horseback riding, dance, theater, travel, culture and foreign languages, as well as issues of life and death. In their words, you will experience awe, vibrancy, amazement and passion.

Though these few essays were deemed to be the best submissions of the 38 entries into the competition, it is worth sharing that these topics and these qualities are commonplace in the work of our students here at WRA. We feel amazingly fortunate to work with such talented and multifaceted students. I hope you will feel their energy and enjoy their stories.

I would be remiss not to thank the committee who evaluated the submissions: Wanda Boesch (science), Katie Bonomo (mathematics), Matt Gerber (history), Matt Peterson (English), Nick Cheadle (foreign languages), Haley Preston (admission) and Kelly Hedgspeth (college counseling). Special thanks goes out to Anna Barlow (college counseling) for organizing and overseeing this project once again.

Enjoy the essays!

Jeffrey R. Neill Director of College Counseling

IRINA KOPYEVA ‘15 1st Place

The vibraphone echoes with the chords of Pachelbel’s canon in D; the air shivers each time he hits a note with the rubber mallets. The crowd is silent as the musician plays, and when he finishes, all of us break away from his spell and clap enthusiastically. As I turn around, I see shining faces—faces I’ve only known for three weeks at this point, though that feels like eternity—all laughing and smiling. I sit down on a bench facing the historic Speyer Cathedral and look up at the sparkling blue sky with a soft smile. My mind begins to wander.

For one month, I worked with cutting-edge scientific research, roamed the streets of Heidelberg, Germany, and surrounding cities, shared sleepless nights, countless stars, and entrancing stories and embraced every moment with 22 participants from around the world.

From Australia to the United Kingdom, Japan to the U.S., we all came from different lifestyles, different language groups, different interests. Languages have always been a substantial part of my life. For the first time, I was surrounded by people who, like me, spoke multiple languages, be it French, Czech, German. From late night conversations in Russian with my roommate, to discussions in French about Camus, and even exclamations of “I know that word!” about German, I discovered that applying my linguistic skills, used only before at school or at home, invigorated me.

Yet, I wanted to unearth more—I eagerly started learning phrases, numbers and the alphabet in Hebrew, and in return, I divulged my knowledge of Russian to my friends. Different languages bring with them a new dimension—a new world. As I tasted Hebrew, I savored the stories of Israel and mourned the losses of the tragic war; the Russian-Ukrainian conflict came alive through my Crimean roommate; the earnest pleas of the Scots resounded in the Brits’ reactions. Amidst this group, a day never passed without us smiling at an anecdote or being moved by an event; for four weeks, we came together as one, big, international family that offered something for all.

Of course, scientific research was an important factor of ISH, but even in the labs, the cultural interchange continued. My partner and I, both expecting to study biology and chemistry, instead found ourselves in the Medical and Biological Imaging department at the German National Cancer Center, a foreign land, whose native tongue, binary, held no meaning to us at all. After days of testing new software and mobile apps, my German partner had shown and taught me all the warning signs that could possibly appear on a computer screen, but I still had more to learn.

In between lines of code, astounding 3D images of organs and colon tissue phantoms, the German culture popped up. My partner described his life in the north, his hometown, and the intriguing ice cream flavors, such as the local favorite—mustard—you could savor there. Our tutors were eager to not only introduce me to computer science, but to southern German culture as well; at mealtimes, they stuffed me with traditional knödel and tales of Bavaria. It wasn’t one-way though—I recounted my experiences in the United States as they fervently asked questions about college to football. Even at the lunch table, I met other international researchers, who added their own stories to the mix. Before this trip, in the days leading up to Flight 989 to Frankfurt, I had no idea what to anticipate, but as I left the department, I walked confidently, thankful for having had this amazing opportunity to immerse myself in a different tradition.

As the cathedral bell tolls thirteen times, I wake from my reverie, but the thoughts linger in my mind, their sweet taste still perceptible—amidst these ancient walls, culture and science, my two passions, continue to swirl around me, blanketing me in a state of perfect bliss.

ANA WHITE ‘15 2nd Place

The Girl in the Mirror

An eight-year-old child stands in front of a mirror in a blue, floral, Chinese dress that is two sizes too big. As she listens to Carrie Underwood’s “All-American Girl,” she is puzzled by the awkward portrait staring back at her. Inside, she felt like the girl in the song.

A typical, all-American girl. However, the pale, dainty face in the mirror represented an identity struggle between her past heritage and present culture. The truth is, I’m the girl in the mirror, and my American parents adopted me from China when I was 9 months old. This oversized, beautiful, silk dress was part of a promise they made with Holt International that ensured that I would always remain connected with my Chinese roots.

Throughout my life, my parents have attempted to integrate Chinese culture into my identity. From a young age, they had me participate in Chinese New Year festivals with families who had children from China. They bought me DVDs to watch like “Big Bird in China” and a documentary on the lives of other adopted girls. My sophomore and junior year I went out of my way to meet new Chinese friends and take Chinese as a language. Every effort that I made to connect with the Chinese culture felt as if I was trying to fit a square peg into a round hole - it just didn’t fit. When my dad brought up the idea of a heritage tour, I adamantly told him that I had no desire to go back to China and that I considered myself American. It was time to stop pretending that I was Chinese.

It was difficult for my parents to understand why I had no interest in returning to China. The truth is, I had to look inward to determine the best path to connect with my heritage. Instead of meaningless costumes, DVDs and trips to a country that was foreign to me, I found my support with seven other girls who share a common bond with my past: adoption. We form the “Jiangxi 6” group, and every other year we hold a reunion at one of our houses. We call ourselves bananas: yellow on the outside, but white on the inside. We share our trials and fears with one another and relish in the fact that someone can actually understand that while we were born in China, our identities are here in America.

Finding my identity meant understanding who I am and where I came from. My Asian features come from a woman who selflessly placed me in a cardboard box and left me a couple of miles from the nearest market, in hopes that someone could provide me with a better life. My American qualities come from a couple that traveled across the world to give me opportunities she could never have hoped for, and for that I am incredibly grateful. I believe that if she were to ever meet me, she would be proud of the woman I have become. I attribute all of my accomplishments to the couple who came for me. They are my family and the day they wrapped me in their arms I became an American.

TESS PACER ‘15 3rd Place

Tiny Bluegill Moments

After four years, I remember hovering over the tiny bluegill that struggled in my grandpa’s hand the night before. I picture the thin cuts made by its shiny scales and the small beads of blood on his weathered skin. I am brought back to that moment as he hooks worms with shaking fingers and re-casts my line time after time. His usual expression of pain fades under that orange glowing Colorado sun.

My grandpa made me feel safe. When I think of him now, I smell the coffee on his breath mixed with the faint and familiar smell of his birds and Polo cologne. I see the way his blue eyes look up from their crinkling newspaper and meet mine. I feel the tightness of his hugs, especially those given when I was younger, when his arms still had their strength. The hugs to which I was taught to respond, “squeeze me like a bug.” The hugs that led me to being twirled around the room while standing on his black dress shoes. I hear the stories of his first love, first finch, first step in Poland, and as if he told them only yesterday.

My grandpa laid in his open-casket stitched up and unrecognizable. His jaw barely hanging on and his cracked skull morphing the shape of his face. I don’t believe these images could fail to seize me with the thought of what happened. My older brother and I stood a few feet away from the four-wheeler as our grandpa beamed. Anyone could tell that he wanted to feel young again. We witnessed him accelerate down the hill, not know how to break, and crash into a Ponderosa Pine. I can hear his scream and the crack of skull against bark followed by blaring sirens. I feel my chest bursting and the consuming hopelessness of when I saw my grandpa’s blood on my dad’s shirt.

He does not just leave me with my blue eyes. My grandpa showed me the importance of embracing life and what it means to love deeply. He was always conscious of everyone around him and truly wanted to understand all people. I remember us sitting at his kitchen table with me talking for hours and him absorbing each of my words taking care to only offer advice when asked. In this odd way, I felt more connected to him than ever. My grandpa’s unexpressed, but somehow evident, feelings of sympathy created trust between us. I now know that my dream to become a psychiatrist comes from the desire to care for people the same way that my grandpa did. He is my role model and I can only hope to live my life just as fully as he was able to do. He followed his passions and appreciated the paths he had to take and the people he had to meet to achieve them. Because of my grandpa, I embrace the littlest of life’s moments, especially the tiny bluegill ones.

RAHUL BASU ‘15

My grandmother’s apartment stands tall amid the dirty streets of Calcutta, India. As our car rumbles out of the gates, the windows condense as the cool air-conditioning clashes with the dense midday heat. I wipe away a section of glass, and look out into a world like no other: beautiful yet terrible, humbling yet inspiring. Everything is in constant motion, while in the background, a discordance of yells, horns and bells permeate the thick air. Cars, carts and three-wheeled rickshaws part around the cow sleeping in the middle of the street like water around a rock. A beautiful Indian woman smiles at me from a large billboard, holding a bottle of lotion and showing off her flawless complexion. Underneath the billboard, an old lady draped in a worn cloth sari struggles to carry a jug of water. Towering steel buildings intermingle with run-down slums. As our car passes an alley, a ragged boy my age crouches away from the relentless sun, hoping for a few meager coins to drop into his outstretched hands. I sit back in the cool car and let the window fog back up. It was here that I learned appreciation and humbleness.

An explosion of color greets us as we exit the stadium. Trumpets, shouts and victorious chants propel us outside, toward the heart of San Jose, Costa Rica, where the streets are choked with rejoicing people. The soccer match was over, but the celebrations were not. Shining red, white and blue flags stood out against the dark night sky. The bright lights of celebratory fires, street lamps and buildings lit up the shadow cast by the illuminated Estadio Nacional, as euphoric masses continued to flood the streets. Everything is glowing—whether with light or pure passion, it is hard to tell. As we meander our way through the crowd, every face is lit up with a smile. There is no difference in status, wealth or even age. There is only Costa Rica: resplendent and unified. Even we, as outsider Americans, feel truly at home as we are engulfed in the tide of jubilation. It was here that I learned what true joy is.

We are perched hundreds of feet above the calm lake, the result of a steep hike through the darkening forest. In the distance, the sunset blazes bright hues of orange, profiling the natural beauty of Glen Arbor, Michigan. The sandy cliff melts seamlessly into the beach far below. I gaze across the horizon, arms resting on the soft, warm sand, simply marveling at the sheer magnificence of the sight before us. A cool breeze dances across the surface of the water, sending out ripples that seem to travel to the edge of the earth. As the sun dips lower and lower, the lake turns a deeper blue, as the light reflecting off the surface dims. When the sun finally disappears among the clouds covering the skyline, our group takes one last look at the vast expanse before us, and heads back through the darkened woods.

It was here that I learned what pure beauty looks like.

I have had the fortune of witnessing the extreme polarity of the world, some of its very best, but also some of its very worst. It’s strange that there could be a place as beautiful as the northern lakes, while elsewhere a place so stricken by poverty. That there could be a place so consumed with joy, while at the same time a place where each day is a struggle. Traveling has been and will continue to be one of the most important aspects of my life, both shaping and broadening my mind. It has helped me appreciate everything I have today, and all of the new situations, places and cultures I encounter. It is integral to me, and I can’t wait to see the wonders that my future holds.

TREVOR LEVIN ‘15

“Are you creative?” asked the supplement’s questions.

“Of course!” I answered. “I do music and plays. I can answer any of your questions with humor and brilliance.” I then stared at its prompts for a while and had no creative thoughts.

I ground my teeth and tapped my fingers on the table. I had to be creative. Some of my friends spent the summer in a Cleveland Clinic internship working on a cure for cancer. That threatened my superiority complex! I could only reassure myself that I held the right-brain upper hand. Now, this supplement couldn’t even let me have that pseudo-scientific smugness.

“I could Google ‘define creative,’” I mused.

“No! A definition?” replied my writing instincts. “That’s the most cliché, uncreative thing you could possibly put in your essay!”

But I couldn’t help myself. Google told me that “creative” meant “relating to or involving the imagination or original ideas, especially in the production of an artistic work.” (A creative person might have questioned this mechanically-generated definition of “creative,” but, hey, I needed a framework.)

I’ve produced some artistic works: I reached the finals of two Shakespeare monologue contests, I sang a Schubert mass and I’m about to play Gomez Addams in The Addams Family musical. But none of these involve much in the way of original ideas. To my horror, I realized it had been my left brain all along: I had analyzed the text, the notes, the ¡Mi Amor!’s, and figured out the best way to bring them off the page.

“Didn’t you write and record a rock opera with your friends when you were 15?” asked my good angel. “That was pastiche!” I wailed. “Pastiche and parody don’t relate to or involve original ideas! They just analyze something until they find something funny to exaggerate.” Positive-Me gave up, understanding that I was in one of my moods of inconsolable self-pity.

“Hey, so, I’m not creative anymore,” I said to Simon, my Addams Family cohort, after rehearsal that night. Simon laughed creatively. “Damn you, Creative Simon,” I thought as I explained the news.

Simon refused to gloat. “What about the video we made to advertise Homecoming? You had ideas for that. That was creative.” (He had written the script.)

I almost told him that I had just diagnosed the minor flaws in the script and cinematography and offered modest improvements, but I didn’t mention that. First of all, it would have been rude and self-aggrandizing. Secondly, he had a point. So what if I didn’t draw ideas from the ether? Analytical thought could still yield imaginative, original art.

“Thanks,” I said. My self-assuredness swelled back to its unhealthy pre-revelation levels. “You’re right: I really can do anything.” I beamed, and we shook hands with finality. I simply had to work with my strengths. If I used pastiche well—say, turned it on my own ego and insecurity—I could write an essay that really examined the way I think.

ANNA MCMURCHY ‘15

A stern face with eyes angled directly at the camera, the pupils shining with excitement over the prospect of the ultimate adventure. A sheaf of forms detailing all the little numbers that comprise the undeniable, inimitable you. And lastly, a payment, a considerable fee for some individuals until one takes the time to truly consider what one will receive in return: access to mysterious foreign lands where tongues identical to your own twist sounds in ways you could never have imagined, forming languages and accents that sail across the sound waves on the wind. All these elements combined to provide me with a tiny blue book, embossed with a golden eagle stamped beneath the boldly proclaimed PASSPORT at the top of the cover.

The trip that wet my now-insatiable appetite for international travel took me on a service expedition that provided aid to the struggling members of the Oglala Lakota nation. There, the disputed Black Hills cast a bleak shadow over the infertile wasteland to which these native people have been reserved. Woken by the recorded chorus of warbling war-cries, we dove straight into our work each day. We roofed houses, skirted trailers, and built bunk beds for children before retiring to the community center at dusk where we would then absorb the imparted knowledge of tribal leaders.

Though I had embarked on the trip as a child hoping to gain a little worldly experience, I felt myself becoming more mature with every task I completed.

Suddenly, I was partially responsible for another human’s well-being. Did the poverty that existed in the darker corners of my own country shock me? Not exactly.

I knew that some people in the United States lived in squalor and struggled to provide for their children. However, this trip did encourage me to take a deeper level of interest in community service. The next step, an enormous leap beyond cultural comfort zones, took me out of Uncle Sam’s sheltered backyard. My little blue key of a passport unlocked a world beyond the bland existence of childhood naiveté.

In the Dominican Republic, an 81-year-old sugar cane laborer’s eyes—pale blue irises gleaming in resplendent contrast to his dark black skin—pierced my soul with a gentle sagacity that made me question everything I knew about my own life and the world as a whole. Tears rolled down his sunken cheeks as he exclaimed that we were the only people who had shown any interest in him since he left his family 30 years ago. Everywhere our volunteer group worked, we experienced similar displays of gratitude. One day, as we were digging a pipeline, a group of local fifth graders arrived to assist us. Going far beyond our exiguous expectations, these kids tore the pickaxes from our hands and attacked the earth with such vigor that we finished the whole project by day’s end. I, myself, had never felt more like a child as I watched these youngsters work so hard to better their community.

But as the trip continued, I realized something had changed. As I mixed cement for a blind woman’s floor and smiled through my horror at a one-armed toddler whose father was too sick to even rise from his bed, I understood that a new state of mind had taken hold of me. I was no longer a person who needed to be cared for. I had made the shift from childhood to adulthood within my culture, though I was as far removed from it as I had ever been. Adulthood arrived when I saw the injustices occurring around me, and I assumed the responsibility to do something about them. Looking forward, I will be more inclined to not only question our world’s state of affairs, but also to ask myself what I can do to improve them. In answering these questions, we can build a better future one kind deed at a time.

SIMON ONG ‘15

So now this kid is looking at me like I’m out of my mind—whereas I’m wondering if I’m actually going to have to sit down and explain again to this complete numskull that Aang was only saved in “Crossroads of Destiny” because Katara used the sacred water given to her

by Master Pakku from the Ancient Spirit Oasis in the Northern Water Tribe. Even the most dull-minded simpleton would recognize that no ordinary water could revive the Avatar after he had been killed by lightning while in the Avatar State.

“I’ve told you this a million times! It was from the Spirit Oasis at the North Pole. Are you sure you’ve ever even watched the show before?”

He reassures me that he’s seen every episode just as I have, but I’ve already dismissed him as a passionless television-watching zombie with no appreciation for the deeper meaning and inherent beauty of what he is beholding. I guess there’s a certain cockiness that comes with being a nerd.

Honestly, it’s rather baffling trying to discern just where this sense of superiority comes from. Very little social credit is given to one just for being able to list the majority of the original 150 Pokémon. Yet, there is undeniably a palpable attitude of prestige detectable in those nerds who believe that they are the single most reliable source within their community of irrelevant information regarding any one specific area of geeky pop culture.

I am one such nerd. If you are forming a mental image of a kid spending his youth staying up night after night in his room geeking out on comics, books on comics, graphic novels, videos and video games, then you’re not too far from the mark. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a three-season varsity athlete, I have a large group of friends, and I have, in fact, talked to a girl. I’m not the stereotypical snot-nosed nerd with glasses. However, if you even dare to tell me that A Link Between Worlds doesn’t fall between Link’s Awakening and the original NES Classic in the Legend of Zelda timeline, then prepare to be corrected with utmost scorn.

For much of my youth the dominance of my knowledge base went unchallenged. I could talk a kid’s ear off for hours. He might well have no idea what I was even talking about, and I would be entirely satisfied all the same. In fact, I was so confident in the assumption of my unrivaled learning that throughout my gradeschool career I would frequently hide references in various forms of schoolwork, the most pleasing of which were school art projects. Something of mine would be hanging on display for the annual art show at my elementary school, and as I walked by I would hear a couple of parents hypothesizing aloud as to nature of the interesting symbol I had incorporated into my piece. Little did they know that the shrimpy second-grader behind them was strutting by on his high horse thinking, “Yeah, it’s actually the Eye of Agamotto, typically worn by the Sorcerer Supreme, otherwise known as Dr. Strange.”

As much as I hide behind my well-earned cockiness, I’m one of such onlookers. For all my knowledge in certain areas of nerd-dom, I remain ignorant in eithers.

It’s humbling to go at one moment, from knowing everything about the life of space bounty hunter Samus Aran, to another where I’m stumbling my way through a discussion on Star Trek. Something about not being able to name the entire crew of the USS Enterprise, taught me to appreciate my passions for what they are.

I’ve learned that my passions shouldn’t revolve around how many esoteric facts I can stick in my head. I now appreciate these things for what they are. Nerdiness is not a competition, but a collaborative sport that can build communities and make friendships.

MIKA TAKAHASHI ‘15

I stand waiting, watching. I roll my ankles, each crack sounds deafening against the harmonious melody of “The Waltz of the Flowers.”

I strain my neck to watch my friends in the front row, it is my turn to prove myself. I walk on to the stage, hidden by a flurry of flowery costumes, perfectly choreographed so that as I hit center stage my body is covered by fourteen other dancers. The music slows, I inhale calmly, and all fourteen dancers open up the circle to reveal me, grinning in a perky light purple tutu.

My home is not the stage. I still get nervous when asked to perform in front of an audience, but the moment when all eyes are on me makes the grueling hours in the studio and the nervous butterflies more than worth it. Unlike many other young artists who claim that the stage is their destiny and place on earth, I prefer a simple dance studio. Whether it be the small studio in which I have spent the past 14 years, or a vast studio in a new city, the symbol of determination and discipline that every dance studio represents leaves me in awe as I realize it is the great equalizer between the world’s most outstanding dancers, and three year olds flitting about in light pink tutus. This center for creative innovation acts as my classroom, a place where I am constantly learning from those around me yet teaching at the same time. It promotes discipline and cooperation, two tools I have found essential for my success.

I experience a sense of relief whenever I step into a room with a long barre and a wall of mirrors because it reminds me of my childhood. I look in the mirror and visualize the transformation from a young girl with a dream of one day standing on her toes, to the same girl taking the stage at the historic Akron Civic Theatre.

The pleasant memories of pure bliss and felicity that I associate with my youth engulf my entire being as I twirl across the floor. A dance studio is the only concrete thing that has remained constant in my life for the past fourteen years. Through shifting family structures and tears, it supports me more than anything else. When I dance in a studio, I know that I am home.

It is the last minute of the performance, my heart is pounding and I attempt to breathe through my smile. I am performing with the rest of the corps, but my mind is elsewhere, remembering the years I spent working in a studio to finally become the Dew Drop Fairy. I briefly stop in fourth position before an intricate turning solo that concludes the waltz. I exhale slowly, heart still pounding. My entire body lifts upwards, my supporting foot rolling through my shoe to stand on pointe, reminiscent of the years I spent at the barre doing the same exercise. As I turn I am back at the studio, a young girl unable to even touch her toes, but as I land in an impeccable lunge, I am transformed into a ballerina. The dedication of 14 years to a dance studio exhibited in 32 counts.

PETER THEWISSEN ‘15

My adversary sits across from me, gesturing sharply with his hands as he seeks to dismantle my assertion that patriotism is beneficial for a population. As he speaks, my mind furiously races to think of counterpoints to his arguments. I project a confident smile to buy some time to think. I explain that in societies that value patriotism, the people have a greater sense of civic duty, which brings concrete benefits such as higher voter turnout. My opponent laughs and sarcastically inquires whether Nazi Germany had enough patriotism to satisfy me.

Triumphantly, I deliver what I believe to be a crushing blow: Such an example constitutes the logical fallacy of a slippery slope argument and as such is not valid. My victory is short-lived. I am immediately hit with a barrage of rhetorical questions: If you are a patriot, do you value the lives of your countrymen over those of other nationalities? Aren’t we all members of the human race? Why must we divide ourselves into factions? I insist that patriotism still has benefits, but I am not able to convince my opponent.

Despite this, I am in my element, having just reveled in one of my favorite activities: Debating. For me, arguments such as this one are an adventure. In the midst of a debate, I am content, engaged, and learning something new about the world and my opponent. This particular argument was nothing so organized as a meeting of a debate club or a politics class. It was a typical conversation at my lunch table at school. Instead of a moderator or panel of judges, other students constitute the audience and referees. Instead of allotting each contestant a set amount of time, we operate on the premise that if your opponent can get a word in edgewise, it is her time to speak. Here, in the midst of a free-wheeling debate, I feel at home. Here, I am judged solely for my aptitude in the time-honored skill of rhetoric. Here, I can express and test my uncommon opinions concerning the evils of the minimum wage and the war on drugs. Here, my views are not subject to ridicule unless I fail to support my assertions with adequate evidence.

This ideal environment is not limited to my school lunch table. In addition to more formal debates in class and in Model UN, I have been fortunate to engage a variety of people from around the world in informal argument. During an exchange program in England, I battled an economics teacher on the subject of universal healthcare. At the Yale Young Global Scholars program, I had a series of passionate late-night discussions with a Pakistani friend, and began to understand intervention in the Middle East from another point of view. From these conversations and many more, I have learned the value of seeing issues from a different perspective than my own. When, as in the case of patriotism, I do not prevail over my opponent, it is never really a failure: I always learn to see the topic in a new light.

Throughout my college search, I have had one unchanging criterion: All the schools I apply to must have smart and passionate students. I don’t mean smart in that they know the birthdays of all the U.S. Presidents, or that they can factor a complex polynomial in less than three seconds. I mean that they understand how the world around them works and seek to learn more about it through discourse. I believe that there are several sides to each story, and arguing about them at 3 a.m. is my dream come true. My hope for the next four years is to engage in hundreds of debates with peers who share my passion for exploring diverse viewpoints, and so gain a greater understanding of the world, and the people and perspectives in it.

EMILY WINSON ‘15

“Did I raise you in a barn?” my mom would joke when I was a child. I fell in love with riding at the age of four. Dressing as a cowgirl, I attempted to ride my 110-pound Bernese Mountain Dog, with a folded blanket as my saddle. He obviously didn’t understand the concept!

Reckoning that my dog was no substitution for a real horse, I begged my parents for at least one meager lesson. Little could my seriously allergic mom—whose eyes would itch, throat would close and nose would sneeze within 50 feet of a barn—predict that this was not just a passing phase. I was hooked. Spending at least four hours a day, four days a week, at the barn, I practically lived there. In fact, I spent so much time there that my mom’s words took on an unexpected meaning: the barn became a part of my home. Among other things, home is where you are perfectly content and where you learn. It is a place that enables you to discover yourself. I found my home in a barn.

It was a summer day. I was comforted by the aroma of horses, hay and sweet feed. Light streamed through the barn’s windows, illuminating the dust floating through the aisle as the local country station 94.9 WQMX hummed softly in the background. The tranquil smell of leather, sweat and musk in the tack room filled my nostrils. My saddle, sitting on its rack, beckoned to me. With a lead line in hand, I strode to the large outdoor pasture. A patchwork quilt of green and brown unrolled before my eyes—fields and trees as far as the eye could see. My horse stood patiently at the gate, waiting for me. I was home.

On the beautiful days like the one above, I found my contentment. The lessons were harder. I have learned much, not just concerning horsemanship and riding techniques but lifelong lessons, that I will carry with me wherever I go. Approaching a daunting three-foot fence on a young horse requires courage, especially when I would misjudge the distance, causing my young horse to skid to a halting stop while I flew over his ears. There is no blaming anyone but myself. I had to get back on the horse and keep riding. You learn to own up to your mistakes and vow to improve. Above all, I learned the meaning of defeat. Competing against $100,000 horses, when riding my young horse, I learned that ribbons are not everything. You do the best that you can do, and if the blue ribbon happens, then great, but if not, you at least know you did your best and made progress.

I will forever cherish the memories of working at the barn on those long hot August days, mucking out stalls, feeding horses and doing other chores in exchange for riding more horses than just my own. I learned that doing what you love requires hard work, but the accomplishment can also be so pleasant to look back on. Although I sometimes dreaded the shaking legs and the sweat dripping down my back that came from extended practices, I came to the understanding that dedication to improve requires everything you have.

I have always loved the way I can just get dirty and dusty, hay sticking in my hair, mud on my boots and feel so at home. I will forever treasure the way I feel when being in the barn with horses. It has a way of relaxing me. It is a piece of me that I never want to lose. It is my one true passion, and no matter where my life takes me, I will preserve my memories and always remember I have a home in a barn.

KEVIN YANG ‘15

If you were to ask me if I enjoy pole vaulting, I’d respond that I am as infatuated with it as Pooh Bear is with honey. If you were to ask me if I excel at pole vaulting, however, I’d burst into laughter and recount one of my many anecdotes of vaulting failure.

My most memorable botched run-through occurred my last practice of junior year. I was shooting for nine feet after having consistently cleared eight-and-a-half at the beginning of practice. I cycled through the motions I would need in order to succeed: place right hand nine handgrips above where the grip tape meets the fiberglass pole; take a purposeful first step; accelerate towards the mat; pounce off left foot; invert body; flash a smile at the spectators. With these reminders planted firmly in my mind, I propelled myself towards the nine-foot edifice.

Theoretically, I should have at least skimmed the top of the bar. After all, my technique had yielded positive results before, but vaulting demands both refined technique and tenacity. The confidence I had carefully constructed the past hour was quickly corroded by the acidic stares of my peers and coaches: Fifty feet from the pit, I spied my roommate to the side of the runway, sporting his signature goofy smile. “Yeah, Kevin!” he whooped.

Cutting the distance to 40 feet, I heard stomping as the distance girls rounded the curve and slackened their pace to witness my jump.

With only 30 feet of wiggle room, I catapulted my attention to the girl standing behind the track fence. Even from here I knew it was that cute senior girl from the high school down the road. I descried a poster paper roll in her beautiful hands. A feathery sensation overwhelmed my stomach.

From 20 feet away, I shifted my eyes to my coach, arms akimbo, face impassive.

Ten feet separated me from the pit. As I advanced toward my target with surging speed, my uneasiness manifested itself as I committed the ultimate “no-no” of vaulting: I snuck a peek at the bar. “Wow, that’s tall…” I thought to myself. “I’d be elated if I could make nine feet my PR.” But, as you can guess, elation is the last thing I felt as I took one last stride on the polyurethane ground.

Anticlimactically, my ankle twisted, my pole planted on the mat rather than the pit I had so intensely aimed for, and my body flopped butt-first into that metal depression in the ground. My roommate emitted his sonorous guffaw. My coach raised his eyebrows in an all-too-familiar expression of half-amusement, halfdismay. Worst of all, that cute senior girl unraveled her poster, reading “PROM?” in colorful capital letters, and hollered, “Kevin, will you go to prom with me?”

She saw me crash and burn. I was mortified.

I inspected the vicinity, expecting everyone to be judging me, forecasting a typhoon of laughter and finger-pointing. In reality, very few were observing me. The other athletes were occupied with their own practices. Only a fraction scrutinized my mistake, and what initially seemed like a disaster to me was but a dud to them. An insignificant hiccup. A bump in the road. But it was not the end of the world, and a mistake of such minute magnitude, I realized, was not worth fussing over. Why should I let my gaffes aggravate me? What mattered was that I had fun and that my teammates rooted for me, my coach enthusiastically mentored me, and my prom date was dazzled by my fearlessness of heights. The sensation of flying into the air trumped any physical pain that was to follow, and whenever I did clear the bar, my friends’ congratulations were a cherry on top of my vaulting regalement.

I picked myself and my pole up, massaged my sore rump, and waddled to the back of the pole vaulting line for another try.