By the way, the point of the essay was to be unique. I think I followed that prompt pretty well.
The Definition of “Real”
As I sit here at my kitchen table, pen in hand, I glance up at the antique clock ticking monotonously on my wall. Eleven thirty-eight. I turn my attention back to the pile of notebook paper in front of me. The crisp white of the blank paper has an inviting vibe about it, but without ideas, the sheets are useless.
I gnaw on the end of my already chewed-up pen, trying to think of the best way to write my personal essay. My dictionary lays opened up to a random page, in the hope that some word would leap out at me and strike me with inspiration. My thesaurus, on the opposite side of the paper, sits untouched.
I try to think of a subject to write about. Something that would glorify my achievements, make me sound as brilliant as a rocket-scientist, or as talented as a contortionist in Cirque de Soleil.
Strangely enough, my mind is as blank as the paper waiting on the table. Sure, I have my talents, I’m reasonably intelligent, and I’ve had experiences that changed my life, both for better and worse. Sadly, none of these seem worthy of such an influential essay.
I think about times I was discriminated against. For about an hour, I write about the discrimination I faced being a teen mother. As I review what I’ve written, it sounds informational; I used a lot of big words, and it accurately shows how I dealt with the awkward questions and cold glances. I still shove the paper down the shredder. I’m not impressed.
Then, I write about my experiences being homeless from age sixteen. I weave a heartbreaking tale about freezing under a bridge in the middle of January, or living in substandard conditions in a teen shelter. After another hour and a half, I evaluate the finished essay. Once more, the paper goes through the shredder. Still not impressed.
I glare up at the ticking contraption up on my wall again, as if it were the clock’s fault I couldn’t write the perfect college essay. I drag my feet over to the espresso maker to pour myself another cup of the strongest coffee possible. Sipping the bitter liquid, I slump back into my chair. This has to be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write.
I grab my dictionary, about to give up and just go to bed. Before I could slam it shut, the hope I once thought futile roared back into my brain. One word sent an electric tingling sensation through my body. Real: genuine; not counterfeit, artificial, or imitation; authentic.
Words fly onto the last sheet of paper on the table. They flow from the deepest level of my soul, branding the paper with my flaws, but stamping the bright white with my unique seal of authenticity. Holding up my final attempt, a warm feeling spreads through my fingertips. Finally: my personal essay.
Mod: No all-caps in title, please.
