Heres my first college essay I just finished and would like some critique before I turn it in. The topic was: Describe an event that you learned something from.
Hope you enjoy:
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The Greatest Teacher
Old Folks Homes; depressing and dull, but somewhere beyond the aging inhabitants can lie life long inspirations. Through the ancient wrinkles to the failing hearts, hope shines bright; hope that every night brings a morning, hope that people can look past their ventilators and nose bleeds and notice the immortal child still lurking within.
This story starts in the summer of 97’, in a small neighborhood named Bammel Forest. Its old, ancient history lies apparent in the creaking dated houses, and the twisted mossy pecan trees, which are remnants of an old plantation. The roads that run through the neighborhood resemble the fabrics in a knitted sweater, intertwining themselves at each block, with occasional curves and small hills scattered about. The roads are skinny, just barely big enough for two cars, with deep culvert ditches running parallel to the tar-stained roads, creating small concaved holes where tiny creatures make home. The age of the neighborhood can not only be seen in the bark-coated trees that paint the landscape with shadowed grays, but in the inhabitants that made home there. This can be witnessed just by glancing out a window and watching the old ladies taking a stroll down their driveway with an oxygen tank wobbling behind them, and the wrinkled grandpas jogging at incredible speeds with their titanium walkers and expensive pacemakers. And there I am, a blonde, scrawny boy, growing up in this wooded sanctuary. I am not sure how much impact growing up there had on me; I was just like the other kids, hyperactive without sugar, and having epic battles with imaginative pirates, ninjas, and warriors alike. I mostly kept to myself, having leisure strolls on my small black bike to one end of my driveway to the garage, and playing video games in my entertainment room with my older brother; we were gurus at demon battling and coin collecting. I was a shy boy, turning apple-red when a stranger would speak to me, and lowering my head in embarrassment, speaking with a soft incoherent murmur.
It was during early July, when my mother came to me, speaking several dreaded words “Jason, we are going to go visit a relative in the Old Folks Home tomorrow…” That was all I needed to hear, zoning out the rest with blahs, and going into a sulking rage. Why you might ask? Because the Old Folks Home was the spawn of the greatest evil, boredom. That meant NO Game Boy, NO kids my age, and NO fun. It was a guarantee sore-cheek alert, with grandmas sharpening their pinching fingers and practicing that 90o Olympic cheek twist.
So tomorrow unfortunately came, and my family hopped into the maroon minivan, and hauled it to the Old Folks Home. Upon entering the building, the scent of musty clothes and dry deodorant stung through my nostrils, causing my sinuses to have a red alert, closing all air passages with a milky mucus. We arrived at our relative’s room, sitting down in the cracked leather chairs that were sprawled about. She sat there, under a deep blue wool blanket, eating off an adjacent push cart that was toped with assortments of puddings and fruits. She blabbered on in an alien tongue, speaking of things a child my age could not understand, nor care to. I began to nod off into the realms of mystical dreams, until my mother roughly pushed my arm that held up my heavy head, causing it to fall quicker than a blind man tight roping, immediately jerking me into reality. I jumped up, promptly leaving the room to hopefully find something that could keep my attention. I headed down the maze-like halls of the building, coming to a room with a mounted television on the wall; great, The Golden Girls was on, what a great show to stimulate my young mind! I plopped down on the leather couch, staring up at the old wooden T.V. Squeal Squeal, an old lady approached the television area with her rusted walker, scooting slower than a crippled turtle. She sat down next to me, sighing as she used her last bit of strength to relax deep into the couch, letting the leather mould around her fragile bones. She stayed there, fixating on the episode of Golden Girls that flashed on the screen. It was silent, just an old lady and I watching old energetic ladies inside a mounted box. “I’ve seen this episode many times boy.” She spoke, causing my cheeks to ignite in a fiery red, someone call the fire department. I stayed quiet, hoping she would not continue the conversation, “So what are you doing out here alone youngster?” She turned her head to face me; I swear I could hear the puffs of dust release from her neck bones, and she smiled. Something about her smile I will never forget, it gave me warmth and sanctuary. I told her why I was there and how my family was visiting one of our relatives, and she just listened, chuckling and nodding her head as if she was once in my position.
“You know, I was once a teacher in my younger years,” She paused for a minute as if to catch her breath, “and oddly enough, your relative was a student of mine back in high school.” She finished that sentence with a light cough, revealing her ancient age. We must have sat there for hours, blabbering about her life and all the spunky things she had been through and done when she was growing up. She told me of the olden days, how she grew up on a farm with her papa, tilling the land and planting crops, how she was not the best kid in school, always going against what her teachers had to say, and yet there she was, a retired teacher.
It began to grow dark, and my family came into the television room, signaling to me that it was time to leave, and yet as much as I dreaded the place, something about this old mangled teacher grew deep inside me. As I stood to leave, she smiled wide and said, “May I have a hug please?” Her warmth bubbled out like a gapping wound, and I could not resist. I leaned over, wrapping my arms tightly around her, and to my surprise, she gripped my shirt and pulled me close as if this hug was her last.
The following week, as I sat lazily in my cozy beanbag playing video games, a sudden knock rang on my room’s door, it was my mother. She looked saddened, yet at peace, and started to speak with a crackled voice. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing; my heart began to skip beats at the news. She told me how the retired teacher I had spoke with not so long ago had passed away earlier that week, and before she had died she mentioned to her nurse at the old folks home of her time spent with me and how I had an impact on her life.
I don’t think I will ever be able to fully comprehend all that I had learned that day in the company of that wonderful woman, but I think the most important thing that has stuck with me to this very day was how important it is to confide and listen to others. I don’t believe anyone realizes how much of an influence and meaning you can have on someone’s life by simply being there for them and holding what they have to say close to your heart. I believe even after her retired years, she was still teaching; teaching me a life long lesson that I still hold true to this very day.
Hope you enjoy:
---------------------------------------------------------------------
The Greatest Teacher
Old Folks Homes; depressing and dull, but somewhere beyond the aging inhabitants can lie life long inspirations. Through the ancient wrinkles to the failing hearts, hope shines bright; hope that every night brings a morning, hope that people can look past their ventilators and nose bleeds and notice the immortal child still lurking within.
This story starts in the summer of 97’, in a small neighborhood named Bammel Forest. Its old, ancient history lies apparent in the creaking dated houses, and the twisted mossy pecan trees, which are remnants of an old plantation. The roads that run through the neighborhood resemble the fabrics in a knitted sweater, intertwining themselves at each block, with occasional curves and small hills scattered about. The roads are skinny, just barely big enough for two cars, with deep culvert ditches running parallel to the tar-stained roads, creating small concaved holes where tiny creatures make home. The age of the neighborhood can not only be seen in the bark-coated trees that paint the landscape with shadowed grays, but in the inhabitants that made home there. This can be witnessed just by glancing out a window and watching the old ladies taking a stroll down their driveway with an oxygen tank wobbling behind them, and the wrinkled grandpas jogging at incredible speeds with their titanium walkers and expensive pacemakers. And there I am, a blonde, scrawny boy, growing up in this wooded sanctuary. I am not sure how much impact growing up there had on me; I was just like the other kids, hyperactive without sugar, and having epic battles with imaginative pirates, ninjas, and warriors alike. I mostly kept to myself, having leisure strolls on my small black bike to one end of my driveway to the garage, and playing video games in my entertainment room with my older brother; we were gurus at demon battling and coin collecting. I was a shy boy, turning apple-red when a stranger would speak to me, and lowering my head in embarrassment, speaking with a soft incoherent murmur.
It was during early July, when my mother came to me, speaking several dreaded words “Jason, we are going to go visit a relative in the Old Folks Home tomorrow…” That was all I needed to hear, zoning out the rest with blahs, and going into a sulking rage. Why you might ask? Because the Old Folks Home was the spawn of the greatest evil, boredom. That meant NO Game Boy, NO kids my age, and NO fun. It was a guarantee sore-cheek alert, with grandmas sharpening their pinching fingers and practicing that 90o Olympic cheek twist.
So tomorrow unfortunately came, and my family hopped into the maroon minivan, and hauled it to the Old Folks Home. Upon entering the building, the scent of musty clothes and dry deodorant stung through my nostrils, causing my sinuses to have a red alert, closing all air passages with a milky mucus. We arrived at our relative’s room, sitting down in the cracked leather chairs that were sprawled about. She sat there, under a deep blue wool blanket, eating off an adjacent push cart that was toped with assortments of puddings and fruits. She blabbered on in an alien tongue, speaking of things a child my age could not understand, nor care to. I began to nod off into the realms of mystical dreams, until my mother roughly pushed my arm that held up my heavy head, causing it to fall quicker than a blind man tight roping, immediately jerking me into reality. I jumped up, promptly leaving the room to hopefully find something that could keep my attention. I headed down the maze-like halls of the building, coming to a room with a mounted television on the wall; great, The Golden Girls was on, what a great show to stimulate my young mind! I plopped down on the leather couch, staring up at the old wooden T.V. Squeal Squeal, an old lady approached the television area with her rusted walker, scooting slower than a crippled turtle. She sat down next to me, sighing as she used her last bit of strength to relax deep into the couch, letting the leather mould around her fragile bones. She stayed there, fixating on the episode of Golden Girls that flashed on the screen. It was silent, just an old lady and I watching old energetic ladies inside a mounted box. “I’ve seen this episode many times boy.” She spoke, causing my cheeks to ignite in a fiery red, someone call the fire department. I stayed quiet, hoping she would not continue the conversation, “So what are you doing out here alone youngster?” She turned her head to face me; I swear I could hear the puffs of dust release from her neck bones, and she smiled. Something about her smile I will never forget, it gave me warmth and sanctuary. I told her why I was there and how my family was visiting one of our relatives, and she just listened, chuckling and nodding her head as if she was once in my position.
“You know, I was once a teacher in my younger years,” She paused for a minute as if to catch her breath, “and oddly enough, your relative was a student of mine back in high school.” She finished that sentence with a light cough, revealing her ancient age. We must have sat there for hours, blabbering about her life and all the spunky things she had been through and done when she was growing up. She told me of the olden days, how she grew up on a farm with her papa, tilling the land and planting crops, how she was not the best kid in school, always going against what her teachers had to say, and yet there she was, a retired teacher.
It began to grow dark, and my family came into the television room, signaling to me that it was time to leave, and yet as much as I dreaded the place, something about this old mangled teacher grew deep inside me. As I stood to leave, she smiled wide and said, “May I have a hug please?” Her warmth bubbled out like a gapping wound, and I could not resist. I leaned over, wrapping my arms tightly around her, and to my surprise, she gripped my shirt and pulled me close as if this hug was her last.
The following week, as I sat lazily in my cozy beanbag playing video games, a sudden knock rang on my room’s door, it was my mother. She looked saddened, yet at peace, and started to speak with a crackled voice. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing; my heart began to skip beats at the news. She told me how the retired teacher I had spoke with not so long ago had passed away earlier that week, and before she had died she mentioned to her nurse at the old folks home of her time spent with me and how I had an impact on her life.
I don’t think I will ever be able to fully comprehend all that I had learned that day in the company of that wonderful woman, but I think the most important thing that has stuck with me to this very day was how important it is to confide and listen to others. I don’t believe anyone realizes how much of an influence and meaning you can have on someone’s life by simply being there for them and holding what they have to say close to your heart. I believe even after her retired years, she was still teaching; teaching me a life long lesson that I still hold true to this very day.
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