A Reflection

            This semester I had the opportunity to explore the “art of the essay,” and I read and studied a diverse mix of personal essays and even a little poetry. Some of my favorite works were written by George Orwell, Gary Soto and Wallace Stegner.  I used the essays I read as models for my own writing, and over the course of the semester built up a repertoire of my own essays and poems. The benefit of my studies is not this final product though, but rather what I learned through the process.

            The best essays are not written overnight. When writing an essay, it needed to be written and shaped, and then changed again and rewritten until I was left with something that felt complete. I usually started an essay with an idea in my head, but when I was finished it often had gone somewhere that was much different from my original intention. And sometimes after I thought I had it right and published my work, I would go back a week later and find ten more things I wanted to change. I learned that the beauty of writing is that my words are never set in stone because there is always room for change.

            I also learned about myself as a writer. When I first started writing, I often found myself with nothing to say. In the essays I had been reading, the writers described life in exotic places, the thrills of working as a fighter pilot, or the moral dilemma behind shooting an elephant. I am just a small town kid who has had none these life experiences, so how could I possibly write something that compares? I had this idea stuck in my head until I started reading the novel Crossing to Safety, by Wallace Stenger. When talking about writers, Stenger wrote, “They don’t understand any more than other people. They invent only plots they can resolve. They ask the questions they can answer.” He is saying that writers don’t always have to say something that is wise and weighty. When I think of a writer, I always picture an intelligent, experienced person who has profound things to say about the world. But writers are just regular people, who write about the things they know. Just because I don’t know much more than anyone else, I can still write about the things I see, the things I know, and my writing can have meaning as well.

            Whether I chose to peruse a career as or writer, or I decide to simply write for my own enjoyment, I know writing will always be a part of my life. Some people say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I think I would still rather have a thousand words. My friends express themselves through painting, drawing, or playing music, but for me, a blank word document is like a giant canvas, ready to be filled, colored and shaped with my thoughts. When I’m writing, I say things that would never come out of my mouth; it is much easier to be honest when I’m sitting at a computer because I know that there is always the option to delete what I said.

            What I learned this semester is just a start. Like I said before, writing is a process, and there is so much left for me to learn. I plan on continuing to explore and enhance my own writing for many years yet to come.

I Had a Dream

      

           I had a dream. I had a dream that I would be an athlete and a scholar. I had a dream that I would go to a school were I would not be judged by the lapses in my attention but by the content of my imagination. I had a dream, that one day I would rise up from my state as an obese catholic school child and show everyone my true potential.  

            For you to fully understand my dreams though, I have to go back a few years. This speech is supposed to be honest, and so even though this may be a little embarrassing, I have decided to tell you a bit about my childhood.

            I failed second grade. It was kind of a low point for me. As a kid I had this wandering mind that could never seem to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes, and even though I loved going to school everyday to see my friends, things that went on in the classroom had little importance to me. Numbers were just a jumble and I always believed that as long as you could sound a word out, the spelling was optional. I did not want to count to thirty by three’s, and I didn’t care how many apples Paul had. At the end of the year I had failed several classes was asked to repeat second grade, but my parents didn’t want me to fall behind. Third grade was even worse. I was far behind in all my school work, and constantly in trouble for not paying attention during church, so my parents decided to move me to the public school.

           This was the first of my failures. I remember how it embarrassing it was to fall behind my classmates, how uncomfortable it was to be pointed out as “different,” but mostly how disheartening it was to disappoint my parents, because they had expected me to flourish in that Catholic school, and I had come up short.

           But I had this dream to rise up out of my low state and become a success, and slowly I learned to harness my wandering mind and put it to use. By middle school I was a good student with decent grades and the pressures of school were temporarily lifted. But then I started playing sports.

           As some of you may know, I was not gifted with the coordination or grace that is required to play sports. In addition to my clumsiness, I was short for my age and rather overweight. I was not cut out to be an athlete. This should have been clear to my parents from early on, but they still insisted that I play basketball, do gymnastics, play softball, and my father even made me play flag football with the boys. Each of my attempts at athletics was more embarrassing than the last. I scored baskets for the wrong team and fell off the balancing beam more times than I can count. I got nailed in the face by softballs and footballs and soccer balls and gym floors. Again I had come up wildly short of everyone’s expectations.

           I persisted though, because I had a dream that I would be the kind of athlete my parents would be proud of. After trying my hand at many sports, I finally found my niche—two activities that require no coordination at all. I can run in a straight line for long periods of time and I have fast reflexes, so I found some success running cross country and playing goalie. As happy as I was to find something I was good at, I realized that each sport came with expectations; I could always do better than I had. Fifth place was good but first place is better. I had seven nice saves but I still let in that one goal. Reaching a new level of skill just meant that I’d have to work even harder to get to the next step.

           I was continuously scrambling to catch up but always a step behind. This trend carried into high school, where grades were more important and sports were more intense. My new dream was to carry a perfect GPA and grades became my obsession. And not only did I feel like I had to get good grades—I felt like I had to look and act a certain way. My dream was perfection. With each semester the pressure amplified and I had to try even harder to keep up my record and almost every school day came with at least one quiz or test. It felt like people were always trying to evaluate me—that no matter how hard I worked on something, there was always going to be someone there to tell me what I did wrong and what I still didn’t know. Living up to people’s expectations was exhausting.

            These dreams I had for myself turned into my downfalls. Don’t get me wrong, I made lots of friends and had plenty of fun during high school—but sometimes I feel like I missed out things because I was so worried about making everyone else happy. I wasted my summer mornings in the weight room lifting for soccer, and on Saturday mornings when I was supposed to be sleeping in, I spent my time pouring over calculus homework with Cassie Quirt in her basement.          

            High school will be over in a few days and I accomplished what I set out to do. I got my perfect grade point—but I’m having a hard time validating to myself that it was really worth it. If it was truly my dream, I should be ecstatic, but I think the problem was that it was never my dream, just what I dreamed I could be for everyone else. 

          So this is my message to my classmates: Don’t live up to your full potential. Once and a while, give up and don’t persevere. Sure you can reach for the starts, but sometimes isn’t it enough to just reach for the top of the fridge?        

    One of the wisest men in the world, Dumbledore, once said, “If you’re holding out for universal popularity, I’m afraid you will be waiting for a very long time.” Instead of trying to be the best, be the happiest, and instead of trying to make people happy with you, find the people who are just happy to be around you. 

            Next year we have a fresh start and I challenge everyone to just have some fun. Work hard at the things you are passionate about, but let some of that small stuff go. Challenge yourself to learn and grow, not because you have to, but because you want to.

            I had a dream. For now though, I chose not to have a dream, but to simply be a dreamer.

The Art of Rivalry

            It’s a crazy thing that two goals, 8,000 square meters of grass, and a soccer ball can turn a group of sweet girls, into a team of ruthless fighters. I thought I would be different, that I would not become a part of the cruelties of the sport, but after my first season I realized that not even the most amiable girl is immune to the pressures of competition.

            As seen from the sidelines we play a pretty clean game. Sure, we knock into each other or throw the occasional elbow, but that is just the nature of the game. We leave the real physical stuff, like punching and tackling, for the boys. Girls like to get in each other’s heads. For instance, if a team has a girl on the field who likes to control the field and make the plays, we have someone stand just a step in front of her so she never is open. She will become easily frustrated and start screaming at her teammates for the ball. So then when her teammates try to force a pass to her, our team can easily intercept it and continue to frustrate her. If a team has a freshman wonder who is good but still unsure of her skill, we double team her the first ten minutes of the game, let her receive all of her passes but take them away right away. The freshman’s confidence will be shot before the first half is over, and she’ll be afraid of making any risky plays. This psychological warfare is so subtle that not much is noticed by outside observers, but it is extremely effective. We can pick apart the team leaders and turn a team against each other. This sounds really shallow, but you don’t understand the motives behind our dirty play until you actually get out on the field.

            My sophomore year I was just beginning to play goalie, and even though I was definitely not prepared, the varsity coach had found himself without a keeper, and I was the only option. My Sheboygan Falls varsity team dominated the first couple games of the season, usually winning by eight or nine goals, and I’d only had to block a few soft shots. But my teammates always reminded me that these games were just a warm up for the big game against Plymouth.

            Plymouth has been our town’s rival forever. Wearing orange and black, their team colors, was taboo even in middle school, even on Halloween. The rivalry between the girl’s soccer teams ran even deeper. Plymouth had beat Falls in every game over the past seven years, and losing to them again just didn’t seem like an option.

            On the day of the big Plymouth game I felt a change in attitude amongst my teammates. There was none of our usual friendly banter or laughing before the game, no smiles or jokes. Instead everyone was focused, and even the pep talk before the game was much more intense. My coach talked of “uniting against our common enemy,” and in closing told us, “When that first whistle blows, the war is on!”

            My teammates played hard and had some nice shots on goal early in the game, but there was one slip up by my defense, and a Plymouth girl got a nice shot on lower right corner of the goal. I dove after it, skidded across the grass and mud, and tipped the ball with the tips of my fingers. I’d stopped the shot, but I’d tipped the ball right to another Plymouth girl.

            I was down on the ground, the entirety of the goal left undefended. The Plymouth girl standing in front of me, number four, had an open shot at the goal, an open shot at my goal and at that moment she became my enemy.

            I was still sprawled out in the dirt, and looking up saw number four touch the ball out in front of her, glide across the box and set up her shot. In desperation I reached out, grabbed her ankle and pulled. It was enough to throw number four off balance an her shot angled off, just wide of my goal. The referee saw nothing, people on the sidelines were clueless, and even the girl who took the shot didn’t realize what happened. I had been overcome by the excitement of the game, by the strength of our rivalry, and me, the little Sophomore who always played by the rules had cheated the other team out of a goal. 

            Plymouth went on to score a goal on me anyway, and then another. My teammates commended me on my tough play and for all the saves I did make. But I will never forgive myself for stooping that low and playing so dirty.

            I guess the competition got to me, or maybe it was that feeling of devotion to my team, the feeling that I didn’t want to let my teammates down. I had thought I was immune to the intense rivalry the seniors on my team had felt, but I learned that I was not much different from everyone else.

            Later after that game, I started questioning the reasons behind the rivalry. Why did we hate those girls wearing black and orange so much? I think that if I would have met one of those girls off the soccer field and spent some time talking to her, we could actually get along, or even become friends. The Plymouth girls are not bad people, but they are fighting for their cause and I am fighting blindly for mine.  If I had known number four, known what music she listens to or known what her family was like, I don’t think I could have grabbed her ankle and ruined her shot.

            There is so much violence and war going on in the world today, and I wonder if people really know who they are fighting against. If we took the time to get to know people from other culture or understand their religions, it would be much harder to have a racial prejudice against them. And if we knew and understood the people we were at war with, it would be much harder call them enemies.    

            I still don’t know number four or any of the other Plymouth players, and in a few days when my team plays them again, there will be the same rivalry. But maybe instead of seeing the girls out there as my enemies, I will see them as girls who play hard and love soccer, just like me.