"Persona Eclectica"
by Ryan Holman
"Ryan!"
"Yeah, Mom?"
"Have you got that essay for college done yet?"
Uh-oh. I dig frantically through the mountains of college applications and essay prompts that form the topography of my bedroom desk. As though possessed, I seek the common application packet.
I hear her a few minutes later, louder this time: "Ryan?"
She's coming up. Ack!
Seconds later, I produce the half-done application. I'm looking for a black pen that actually writes when the door opens and my mother sticks her head in the door.
"Ryan?"
"I'm working on it, I swear."
"Ryan, it's almost two months into the school year. I can't do it for you. You better get a move on." Her voice has taken on that tone, nagging yet somehow resigned, that she uses when she thinks I will fall behind. I have never liked that tone.
"I've got it handled, Mom. Don't worry about it."
She leaves; I regard the packet in front of me. Ugh. Much as I hate to admit it, I know she is right. I procrastinated when I started this year, claiming I had no time due to my four A.P. classes. Now I can't procrastinate any more, and I know it.
I clear off a spot on my desk and get out a piece of notebook paper. My English teacher's words echo in my head like an ominous bell: "Forget that impersonal crap you've turned in for your entire high school career. Let them see you."
Easy for him to say.
The blank page -- and the column of essay topics -- stares back at me, mocks me; but none really speaks to me. Then there's the "topic of [my] choice." That looks promising. But then, I need to come up with a topic. There is already a "Why do [I] want to go there" essay; redundance probably won't help me much.
Me. Hmm. . . .
I chew on my pen cap thoughtfully as I start to look around my organized mess of a sanctuary. If anyplace can tell me about myself, this is it. My eyes wander as I swivel in my chair. On the shelf next to my bed is my collection of CDs. Everything from Tchaikovsky to Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit meet my gaze. These had been rotated depending on my mood and now look back at me in an orderly disarray. But I can't turn that into an essay, at least one anyone would not recommend as a cure for chronic insomnia.
Another wall is adorned with all of my ribbons from summer swim team -- all five years' worth, spanning from the summers I was eleven through fifteen. This brings a sad little smile. I remembered how my first blue ribbon had been earned, in the 50-meter backstroke. It sure was a pity that my trip to Ireland and the United Kingdom when I was sixteen had been scheduled for the meat of my summer season. So had my trip to Australia the following year. But both were well worth the sacrifice. I look at the photo I took of Dublin's Grafton Street hanging on the wall and remember the shopping trip that had surrounded it. It was one of the few times I'd really enjoyed shopping. . . .
Ryan, get back to work. Now what? Maybe some music will help. I decide on the mix CD my friend burned for me and carefully picked my way back. On the way, I trip over one of my sketch books on the floor. As I clear a path for myself, another packet falls out. But this one isn't really college-related; rather, it is a story I wrote my sophomore year and had published in the September 2000 issue of Kaliope's Korner e-zine (http://www.kaliope.net).
"The Luster of Freedom" . . . I remember that. Sure was easier than this college thing. . . . Maybe that's why I want to get into the writing field, why I want to major in Writing or English when I get to coll-- Ryan, you idiot, it was right in front of you the whole time! How could you have missed it? I step over the remaining piles on my floor and sit on the chair, "Luster . . . " still in hand. Why didn't I see this before?
With a laugh, I uncap my pen and begin to write the first draft of my essay.
This essay is copyright ©2001 by Ryan Holman. Feel free to use it for an idea for one or more of your college essays, but please don't take this verbatim!