Personal Growth Essay
Tom Zincer succeeded in his task. My
science class's first field trip took place on a bitter cold February day in
Maine. Tom, our science teacher, led the group of relatively puzzled,
well-bundled students into the forest. I was right behind Tom, and the sound of
his red boots breaking through the thin layer of ice that covered the crusty
snow seemed to bounce off the trees and scare away the few singing birds that
had not migrated south for the winter. We stopped fourteen times during that
four-hour field trip to hear Tom ramble on about the bark of "this"
deciduous tree and the habitat that "this" coniferous tree needs to
grow. We examined animal droppings and tracks in the snow and traced a bird's
song back to its singer. This was all meaningless to me. I was cold and bored
and wanted the field trip to end.
I would later write several essays
in my journal about the fact that writing a detailed seven-page analysis of the
field trip took all the beauty out of the event. I would complain to Tom about
how boring and mundane his class was and how impossible it was to be so
"anally" observant. I argued that no field trip could ever be
enjoyable if we had to write down and later analyze the percentage of deciduous
and coniferous trees, the air temperature, the amount of snow on the ground, the
slope of the course taken, the change in temperature over the day, and a
plethora of other minutia. Basically, I was lazy. No, no. I was not lazy. I was
just not ready; I was not yet ready to become an observer.
"Sam, just trust me on this
one. You'll thank me later," Tom said at the conclusion of our meeting. I
had gone to see Tom privately in order to discuss how I could survive his class.
The minutia was killing me, and my slow death was reflected in my dismal grade.
Upon leaving that meeting, I made a personal and academic decision to develop my
observational skills, both to please my teacher and to avoid the disappointment
of another "D+."
On my next field trip, I set out
into the forest with two pencils cocked between my two ears like guns ready to
fire. My teeth were clenched with the determination to stay focused throughout
the entire field trip and write down every word that man uttered. However, I
constantly felt myself drifting, and while my mind wandered, the group advanced
significantly ahead of me, and I missed the sighting of another bird. I ran up
to the group just in time to hear Tom start his lecture about a nearby rock
formation. Instead of listening, I was asking my friend to see his Picasso-like
rendition of the bird. I, therefore, fell behind on the lecture, and so went the
endless cycle: fall behind, try to catch up, fall more behind. When it came time
to rewrite my field notes in legible form, I stared at a piece of paper that
consisted of smudged squiggly lines and eventually tears. Frustrated and
disappointed, I retreated back to my cabin to seek refuge.
I quickly got undressed and slipped
under my blanket for warmth, comfort, and most importantly protection. After I
gave myself a few minutes to calm down, I took out the wet crumbled piece of
paper from my pocket and tried to redraw a stick figure of a bird. The twelve
stick figures, representing the twelve different birds we saw, looked exactly
the same, and trying to redraw each body part of each bird to scale was so
difficult that I felt like each pen stroke was met with a ton of resistance.
Giving up, I pushed the piece of paper back into my pocket and lay down on my
back. I saw Simon sitting in his characteristically feminine position on Ethan's
bed. Simon was sitting, facing Ethan, with his legs crossed and his right hand
casually nestled on his right kneecap, his foot twitching like the tail of a
happy dog. Ethan was lying on his side with his big black headphones cupped
around his ears, reading Faulkner. As my head swiveled, I noticed Conrad,
sleeping, as usual, with his blanket clenched tightly under his chin, with both
fists. I heard Fred and Rob discussing the pitfalls of modern education and
could see Donald's head rhythmically moving back and forth, in sync with Jimi
Hendrix. I then realized that I too was part of my environment. I realized that
I was a silent participant, and more importantly, I realized that I was an
observer.
On my next field trip, I had one
pencil nonchalantly nestled on top of my right ear. I set out with no mission in
mind and had no vengeance in my heart. I intentionally lagged behind my fellow
classmates in order to get a wider, broader perspective of the environment.
Applying what I learned in my cabin, I was able to engage all of my senses and
could attempt to take in the vastness of it all. When we returned from our field
trip, the task of doing a "rewrite" did not seem so odious, and my
pencil flew across the page like a writer who just experienced an epiphany and
wants to get his idea down before he forgets it. I drew every bird, tree, and
rock as best I could, and although they were not perfect, they were exactly what
I saw.
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Hobbies and Interests Essay
The sun is still asleep while the
empty city streets await the morning rush hour. As in a ritual, my teammates and
I assemble into the dank, dimly-lit locker room at the Rinconada Park Pool. One
by one, we slip into our moist drag suits and then make a mad run from the
locker room through the brisk morning air to the pool, stopping only to grab a
pull-buoy and a kick-board. Coastal California cools down overnight to the high
forties. The pool is artificially warmed to seventy-nine degrees, and the clash
in temperatures creates a plethora of steam on the water's surface, casting a
scene more appropriate for a werewolf movie. Now the worst part: diving
head-first into the glacial pond. I think of friends still tucked in their warm
beds as I conclude the first warm-up laps. Meanwhile, our coach emerges through
the fog. He offers no friendly accolades, just a stream of instructions and
exhortations.
Thus begins another workout. 4,500
yards to go, then a quick shower and five-minute drive to school. Another 5,500
yards are on our afternoon training schedule. Tomorrow, the cycle starts all
over again. The objective is to cut our times by another 1/10th of second. The
end goal is to have that tiny difference at the end of a race that separates
success from failure, greatness from mediocrity. Somehow we accept the
pitch--otherwise, we'd still be fast asleep beneath our blankets. Yet sleep is
lost time, and in this sport time is the antagonist. Coaches spend hours in
specialized clinics, analyzing the latest research on training techniques and
experimenting with workout schedules in an attempt to unravel the secrets of
defeating time.
My first swimming race was when I
was ten years old and an avid hockey player. My parents, fearing that I would
get injured, redirected my athletic direction toward swimming. Three weeks into
my new swimming endeavor, I somehow persuaded my coach to let me enter the
annual age group meet. To his surprise and mine, I pulled out an "A"
time. National "Top 16" awards through the various age groups, club
records, and finally being named a National First Team All-American in the 100
Butterfly and Second Team All-American in the 200-Medley Relay cemented an
achievement in the sport. Reaching the Senior Championship meet series means the
competition includes world-class swimmers. Making finals will not be easy from
here: these 'successes' were only separated from failure by tenths of a second.
And the fine line between total commitment and tolerance continues to produce
friction. Each new level requires more weight training, longer weekend training
sessions, and more travel. Time that would normally be spent with friends is
increasingly spent in pursuit of the next swimming objective.
In the solitude of the laps, my
thoughts wander to events of greater significance. This year, my grandmother was
hit with a recurrence of cancer, this time in her lungs. A person driven by good
spirits and independence now faces a definite timeline. On the other side of the
Pacific Ocean, my grandfather in Japan also contracted the disease. His
situation has been corrected with surgery--for now, anyway. In the quest to
extend their lives, they have both exhibited a strength that surpasses the
struggles I confront both in sports and in life. Our different goals cannot be
compared, yet my swimming achievements somehow provide a vicarious sense of
victory to them. When I share my latest award or partake with them a story of a
triumph, they smile with pride as if they themselves had stood on the award
stand. I have the impression that my medals mean more to them than I will ever
understand.
Life's successes appear to come in
small increments, sometimes mere tenths of a second. A newly learned skill, a
little extra effort put on top of fanatical training routine, a good race day,
or just showing up to a workout when your body and psyche say "no" may
separate a great result from a failure. What lies in between is compromise, the
willpower to overcome the natural disposition to remain the same. I know that my
commitment to swimming carries on to other aspects of life, and I feel that
these will give me the strength to deal with very different types of challenges.
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