RBCC Exemplar Essays

Left or right? In the fleeting seconds, as I drive up to the turn, I recall the trip I had made a million times before. I flick my turn signal up and veer my car right. With a loud bump and quieter hiss, I made a mistake. I pulled onto an old road riddled with potholes. I couldn’t even guess when it was paved last. I’ve done this before. The last time I turned onto this road my tiny car was trapped in the snow. This road wasn’t plowed, but I doubt it ever was. As I texted my mom, a car I hadn’t seen pulled up near me. The driver offered to help me escape the snow. I agreed, and two huge guys popped out of her car and freed me. But this issue was worse. I pulled over to examine the damage. I had a flat. No chance I was driving home.

My directional issues don’t end in the physical realm. I also struggle with the metaphoric meaning of direction. When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, what I wanted to major in, or where I wanted to work, I would fabricate an answer. However, I felt like a fraud. Like driving without navigation, I was lost. In seventh grade, my friends were ecstatic to pick their electives. But I was mortified. I didn’t want to choose! I was anxious I would miss out on something fun. I spent so long picking between gym, art, and life skills that by the time I chose, gym class was full. I was devastated.

However, it only got worse. In ninth grade, we got to pick our entire schedule. I wanted to explore everything. Unfortunately, there are only seven periods in a day. I considered every class, even ones retrospectively I would’ve hated. I was mortified of making the wrong choice. Each year, these decisions grew harder. Approaching adulthood, I felt crippling pressure to know what I wanted to do with my life. I was so nervous I would pursue the wrong career or fall behind.

Eventually, this pressure became too much to bear. While eating with my friends, I put down my greasy slice of pizza and approached them with these worries. They reassured me that they don’t have their lives figured out either. I later conferred with my parents about this fear and learned my mom originally went into social work but ended up disliking it and switched her career to marketing. I felt immense relief discovering I wasn’t lost or behind. Little by little, I felt free to try many experiences without worrying about wasting time or missing out.

This year, I took ceramics purely for fun. Last year, I took a discussion-oriented class called “The Quest for Justice.” I loathed it! But I learned some valuable lessons through it. Whether it’s taking a risk, like trying out for school soccer, or exploring my interests, no matter how inconsequential, I have made immense progress in my decision-making. Making decisions of my own volition, like dropping friends who hurt me, moving soccer teams for better opportunities, or even coming out as lesbian to my friends and family, built up my confidence. With this unveiled courage, I don’t require constant reassurance to make decisions. My newfound self-assurance allows me to act independently, seek out opportunities, and explore my interests. For example, this summer I shadowed Professor Ronald Canterbury while he researched and banded birds. In the past, I would have been nervous to devote so much time to such a niche interest, but now I understand to find your passions, you must explore.

With these new experiences, I have learned what I’m interested in. The pressure of knowing precisely where and what I needed to be was lifted. Whether it is finding your way home or figuring out your career, you just need some patience (and navigation).

As I walk through my local mall, I am constantly aware of people looking at me. I am a big black man, and I understand what that means to too many people in our society. It means that there is a very significant chance that I will be judged by the color of my skin rather than my character, that my very existence might very well be perceived by others as a threat, and that assumptions will constantly be made about me based on common stereotypes that black men are criminals, dangerous, violent, lazy, and unintellectual. When I think about the way people may view me, I see the contradiction between the assumptions, especially that I might be dangerous, and the reality as tragically comical. I am the epitome of a gentle giant. Other than when fulfilling my duties as a defensive and offensive lineman on the football field, I’ve never been in a physical confrontation in my life. But many people who see me walking down the street would never guess that about me. I wish they could know who I really am.

Many people have assumed that as a big tall black kid, I must be a star football or basketball player. Yes, I do play football well, but football was not a big part of my life until the eighth grade. I also used to play basketball, but it was never truly my passion to be the best in basketball, so I was never the star player. Throughout middle school, I spent my after-school and weekend time playing water polo, swimming, and rehearsing and performing in musicals. During the summers I spent as much time at performing arts camps as I spent at sports camps. Back then I was often questioned by my peers and even some teachers and adults about why I chose those activities, and most particularly why I swam instead of playing basketball. Maybe they asked because I was tall, but I knew that most of the best swimmers are tall and skinny (like I was at the time) so there had to be more behind the questioning.

Like sports, my interests in theater and music do not always fit with black stereotypes. Many might assume that because I am a black teenager, I solely listen to stereotypical “urban” music (i.e. the latest hip hop and R&B songs). While I do listen to hip hop and R&B, I also enjoy jazz, classical, reggae, alternative, and most of all, musical theatre. People might be surprised to know that my headphones blast music from Hamilton, Les Mis, Pippin, Wicked, or Into the Woods, but they do. I even listen to Hamilton while I work out sometimes. Portraying Tom Collins in my high school’s production of Rent and sharing my love of musical theatre with my classmates has been the high point of my high school career. Having the opportunity to play a gay man in love with a drag queen dying of AIDS, in a show meant to shine a light on the effect of AIDS on a group of friends in New York City during the 1990s, greatly impacted my views on life and how to treat people.

If people knew about my interests, would they view me differently? I like to think that they would, and I hope that they would want to get to know the real me. The real me that would rather listen to Lin Manuel Miranda over Trippie Redd. The real me that loves football and basketball but also loves art and literature. The real me that is unique in his own ways but truly is not that much different than any other teenager.

Before I could write, I would draw. There were words in my head and stories in my dreams, but once they hit the paper, they were pictures. Pictures made of thick Crayola markers, felt stickers, and glitter glue on card stock paper. When I was four, I wrote my stories for fun.

Learning the alphabet was a gift, and it was followed by words and sentences. I wrote each difficult letter with a yellow pencil and sounded out each word in a whisper. I struggled through books with big black font to decipher how the words were strung together. The words in my head finally had substance, and I practiced every day. The misspelled words made sense to no one but me, but they were still there. When I was six, I wrote my stories to prove that I could.

I discovered that if I took a stack of paper, folded it in half and stapled the fold, the result resembled a book. My collection of little books grew. I gave them to my friends as presents. I created characters that seemed to come out of thin air. When I was eight, I wrote my stories because my mind was bursting.

When I was given my first iPod, stories began to spring from the lyrics flowing through my headphones. I judged songs based on what stories they wrote in my head. My characters lived out their lives with the songs as their soundtrack. On family vacations, I drew from my surroundings and matched the playlist to the location. I created a city within a cave that had techno music as a backdrop, and a secret beach where life moved to the rhythm of country tunes. When I was ten, I wrote my stories because I saw inspiration everywhere.

Movies fascinated me. They made my soundtrack stories real. I revised movies in my mind, designing new plots for the films and new lives for myself within them. As I read books, I imagined how they would be different if I was in them. I tried to decide how I would act in the situations the already-existing characters faced. When I was thirteen, I wrote my stories to reinvent myself.

I started to notice that my protagonists reminded me of myself. Nora, a quiet older sister, watched over her younger siblings. Eloise had a hidden love of books. Dennis longed to explore an unknown land. Closer examination revealed my insecurities buried in them as well. Charlotte constantly worried about how people interpreted what she said, and Anna took a long time to trust others. My characters, however, developed and grew as people and overcame their fears. They spoke confidently in front of others and made sacrifices for their loved ones. I realized that I had put pieces of myself within all of my characters and then watched them become better. They did not succeed because of magic or chance. They succeeded because, by the climax of the tale, they discovered the only thing holding them back was their fear. When I was fifteen, I wrote my stories because I was slowly coming to the conclusion that I did not have to be afraid.

In quiet moments when I am alone, I open up my computer or notebook and write. I am seventeen, and I write my stories for fun, to prove that I can, because my mind is bursting, because I see inspiration everywhere, to reinvent myself, and because I know that I am capable of escaping my personal limitations. If I cut up my stories, pulled apart my characters, and then pieced them back together as one, they would not be stories. They would be a self-portrait, painted with words instead of brushstrokes. My characters are not me, but pieces of who I know that I am, and pieces of who I know I can become.

I​ ​had​ ​never​ ​been​ ​more​ ​uncomfortable​ ​in​ ​my​ ​life.

I​ ​arrived​ ​in​ ​Nanjing,​ ​China,​ ​yesterday.​ ​I​ ​was​ ​headed​ ​to​ ​my​ ​host​ ​family's​ ​apartment​ ​with​ ​my​ ​host​ ​mom​ ​and​ ​host sister,​ ​with​ ​whom​ ​I​ ​could​ ​barely​ ​communicate.​ ​My​ ​massive​ ​suitcase,​ ​packed​ ​with​ ​all​ ​the​ ​necessities​ ​for​ ​the next​ ​six​ ​weeks​ ​(except​ ​the​ ​key​ ​to​ ​Chinese​ ​fluency),​ ​hung​ ​out​ ​of​ ​the​ ​taxi's​ ​trunk.​ ​I​ ​had​ ​never​ ​been​ ​away​ ​from home​ ​for​ ​this​ ​long,​ ​much​ ​less​ ​in​ ​a​ ​country​ ​where​ ​I​ ​was​ ​far​ ​from​ ​proficient​ ​in​ ​the​ ​language.​ ​Adding​ ​to​ ​my discomfort,​ ​I​ ​was​ ​about​ ​to​ ​move​ ​in​ ​with​ ​a​ ​family​ ​I​ ​had​ ​just​ ​met​ ​-​ ​literally.​ ​The​ ​first​ ​time​ ​we​ ​communicated​ ​was when​ ​they​ ​picked​ ​me​ ​up​ ​from​ ​my​ ​Chinese​ ​school,​ ​said​ ​“hello”​ ​(rather,​ ​nihao),​ ​and​ ​then​ ​we​ ​all​ ​headed​ ​to​ ​their house.​ ​I​ ​was​ ​nervous​ ​and​ ​uncomfortable,​ ​and​ ​wanted​ ​to​ ​return​ ​to​ ​the​ ​comfort​ ​and​ ​ease​ ​of​ ​the​ ​United​ ​States. After​ ​a​ ​quick​ ​tour,​ ​I​ ​went​ ​into​ ​my​ ​room,​ ​sat​ ​at​ ​the​ ​edge​ ​of​ ​my​ ​bed,​ ​and​ ​cried.​ ​I​ ​was​ ​truly​ ​on​ ​my​ ​own.

I​ ​arrived​ ​in​ ​Nanjing,​ ​China,​ ​a​ ​week​ ​ago.​ ​I​ ​was​ ​trying​ ​to​ ​exchange​ ​money​ ​at​ ​a​ ​bank​ ​and​ ​was​ ​sweating​ ​profusely, partly​ ​from​ ​the​ ​thick​ ​Nanjing​ ​heat,​ ​and​ ​partly​ ​from​ ​being​ ​unable​ ​to​ ​read​ ​the​ ​bank​ ​forms.​ ​Desperately​ ​trying​ ​to translate​ ​the​ ​Chinese​ ​characters​ ​to​ ​English,​ ​I​ ​realized​ ​instead​ ​of​ ​saying​ ​I​ ​wanted​ ​to​ ​exchange​ ​money,​ ​I​ ​had asked​ ​to​ ​transfer​ ​money.​ ​After​ ​trying​ ​a​ ​few​ ​words​ ​to​ ​figure​ ​out​ ​the​ ​correct​ ​tone,​ ​the​ ​clerk​ ​finally​ ​understood​ ​that I​ ​had​ ​American​ ​dollars​ ​and​ ​needed​ ​Chinese​ ​kuai.​ ​She​ ​pointed​ ​me​ ​towards​ ​the​ ​foreign​ ​services​ ​window,​ ​where the​ ​bank​ ​teller​ ​and​ ​I​ ​conversed​ ​in​ ​Chinglish​ ​(Chinese​ ​+​ ​English)​ ​with​ ​an​ ​interesting​ ​mixture​ ​of​ ​gestures​ ​and vigorous​ ​pointing.​ ​My​ ​broken​ ​Chinese​ ​and​ ​his​ ​limited​ ​English​ ​vocabulary​ ​barely​ ​got​ ​our​ ​points​ ​across,​ ​but​ ​a few​ ​minutes​ ​later,​ ​I​ ​proudly​ ​walked​ ​out​ ​of​ ​the​ ​bank​ ​with​ ​a​ ​stack​ ​of​ ​crisp​ ​renminbi​ ​(Chinese​ ​currency).

I​ ​arrived​ ​in​ ​Nanjing,​ ​China,​ ​three​ ​weeks​ ​ago.​ ​My​ ​throat​ ​was​ ​killing​ ​me.​ ​For​ ​two​ ​days​ ​I​ ​had​ ​been​ ​taking​ ​a combination​ ​of​ ​ibuprofen​ ​and​ ​cough​ ​drops​ ​to​ ​ease​ ​the​ ​pain,​ ​but​ ​nothing​ ​was​ ​giving​ ​lasting​ ​relief.​ ​Studying​ ​the back​ ​of​ ​my​ ​throat​ ​in​ ​the​ ​mirror,​ ​I​ ​saw​ ​that​ ​it​ ​was​ ​red​ ​and​ ​irritated.​ ​I​ ​wanted​ ​to​ ​go​ ​home,​ ​get​ ​away​ ​from​ ​the pollution,​ ​and​ ​see​ ​a​ ​doctor​ ​who​ ​spoke​ ​English.​ ​Instead,​ ​I​ ​hopped​ ​on​ ​the​ ​subway​ ​the​ ​next​ ​morning​ ​for​ ​the​ ​hour​-long​ ​ride​ ​into​ ​the​ ​city.​ ​After​ ​navigating​ ​the​ ​subway​ ​stop’s​ ​six​ ​different​ ​exits,​ ​I​ ​walked​ ​into​ ​the​ ​hospital​ ​and stared​ ​up​ ​at​ ​the​ ​seemingly​ ​endless​ ​levels​ ​of​ ​escalators.​ ​I​ ​headed​ ​up​ ​to​ ​the​ ​ear,​ ​nose,​ ​and​ ​throat​ ​specialist,​ ​and was​ ​prescribed​ ​small​ ​glass​ ​vials​ ​of​ ​traditional​ ​Chinese​ ​medicine,​ ​which,​ ​despite​ ​their​ ​rather​ ​unappealing​ ​taste, worked​ ​(!),​ ​and​ ​my​ ​sores​ ​soon​ ​disappeared.

I​ ​arrived​ ​in​ ​Nanjing,​ ​China,​ ​over​ ​a​ ​month​ ​ago.​ ​At​ ​dinner​ ​this​ ​evening,​ ​my​ ​host​ ​mom​ ​and​ ​I​ ​talked​ ​(all​ ​in​ ​Chinese (!))​ ​about​ ​the​ ​importance​ ​of​ ​making​ ​and​ ​maintaining​ ​good​ ​relationships​ ​with​ ​one’s​ ​family​ ​members.​ ​She​ ​asked me​ ​about​ ​differences​ ​between​ ​America​ ​and​ ​China,​ ​and​ ​I​ ​responded​ ​that​ ​the​ ​two​ ​countries​ ​have​ ​more similarities​ ​than​ ​one​ ​would​ ​expect.​ ​Eating​ ​dinner​ ​with​ ​my​ ​Chinese​ ​family​ ​each​ ​night​ ​helped​ ​me​ ​adjust​ ​to​ ​a​ ​new culture,​ ​because​ ​family​ ​dinner​ ​was​ ​also​ ​the​ ​norm​ ​with​ ​my​ ​American​ ​family.​ ​Coming​ ​home​ ​and​ ​talking​ ​about​ ​my day​ ​not​ ​only​ ​improved​ ​my​ ​Chinese,​ ​but​ ​also​ ​created​ ​familial​ ​bonds​ ​I​ ​was​ ​so​ ​used​ ​to​ ​back​ ​home.​ ​The relationships​ ​I​ ​formed​ ​and​ ​obstacles​ ​I​ ​overcame​ ​showed​ ​me​ ​that​ ​moments​ ​of​ ​discomfort​ ​allow​ ​for​ ​much​ ​more growth​ ​in​ ​confidence​ ​and​ ​self-understanding​ ​than​ ​relying​ ​on​ ​what​ ​is​ ​comfortable​ ​ever​ ​could.

I​ ​arrived​ ​in​ ​Nanjing,​ ​China,​ ​six​ ​weeks​ ​ago.​ ​As​ ​I​ ​boarded​ ​the​ ​plane​ ​home,​ ​I​ ​realized​ ​how​ ​lucky​ ​I​ ​was​ ​to​ ​be​ ​able to​ ​call​ ​two​ ​places​ ​with​ ​vastly​ ​different​ ​cultures​ ​and​ ​languages​ ​home.

I​ ​had​ ​never​ ​been​ ​more​ ​comfortable​ ​in​ ​my​ ​life.

The Mumps and Bunts: Eradicate Them Both

In 2015, I did my first research presentation in physical science class. It was entitled, "The Thimerosal Controversy," and reviewed the biochemistry of the mercury molecule used in vaccines. The project was well received by my fellow students and instructor, and I considered the issue resolved.

Yet in 2016, I awoke in Columbus, Ohio — home of Guy Fieri, James Thurber, John Glenn, and the mumps.

I couldn't fathom how we were still discussing the safety and effectiveness of vaccines when there was so much information available to support their use.  

Flash forward to last spring: I was playing in the most important baseball game of my life. The tying run was on first base in the final inning of the playoffs, and I was at the plate. When I looked down at my coach for the sign, I was shocked to see that he was calling for a bunt. Just as there is ample evidence that vaccines are of great value to public health, there is similar data to show that the bunt is less effective than simply "swinging away."

Therein lies an intellectual challenge that I have been trying to solve since I completed that first research project in eighth grade: Why do people act on their personal intuition instead of research-driven analysis done by those who are experts in the field? Are they unable to reconcile results that are incompatible with their moral or religious upbringing? Do they have a sincere lack of trust in the work? Do they simply listen to what most basically satisfies their desires? 

As I have grown older and more mature, I realize how lucky I am to have been surrounded by a family that always pushes me to have a strong, rational basis for my beliefs. From my early childhood years, my parents created a household that fosters healthy argument and disagreement. Whether questioning the basis of my political ideology or defending their parenting styles, my parents encourage open discussion on any and every topic. This dialogue has helped my academic, social, and athletic development immeasurably, as I am prepared to defend my every opinion based on its thoughtfulness and merit. I appreciate how often I'm able to have meaningful exchanges with educators, peers, and coaches because not only am I able to garner respect and esteem from those whom I hold in high regard, but I am also able to learn valuable lessons that expand my insight into various fields of life.

While my parents and teachers have provided me with a strong foundation, I know that to fully develop into the man I want to become, these important exchanges must continue. I am aware that many of my future fellow students will have life experiences and opinions that differ significantly from my own, and I believe that this type of interaction is perhaps the most critical component of an effective higher education. Whether it's as a scientist, coach, engineer or politician, being able to form my own thoughts based on good data, while remaining receptive to new ideas, is of critical importance in contributing to a successful and progressive society. 

Long after the baseball game ended (a game which we won after my bunt helped score the tying run), I revisited the bunting conundrum.  As it turns out, the math behind bunting is more complex than I had originally thought, and in certain situations bunting is a reasonable option. Similar to my vaccine presentation in eighth grade, there is always more to learn, and true understanding often lies within the subtleties that are not immediately apparent.

Starting high school can be terrifying in its own right, but even scarier if you have not been in public for nearly a year. My first day of ninth grade, I had to wear a medical mask in the halls and keep human contact to a minimum, which is no easy task in a high school hallway. On September 13, 2013, only two weeks into my eighth grade year, I was diagnosed with severe aplastic anemia for the second time. This meant my body had stopped producing enough blood, which I have been told by several doctors is necessary for living, apparently. To treat this ‘mild’ ailment, I would need another Bone Marrow Transplant (BMT). I had my first BMT for the same condition when I was ten, and it turned out that I was one of the very few people whose transplant fails years after the fact. 

To sum up the experience, it sucked. I was nauseous, hungry, and miserable for months. I couldn't leave my house or see anyone because my immune system was so weak that getting the flu could have been fatal. But there was one silver lining to being home-bound — I got to live every thirteen-year-old’s dream of playing video games all day. My days consisted of eating, throwing up, and sleeping, broken up only by my games. One of my favorite games was Dark Souls, where you play a warrior who is hopelessly outmatched in a world of monsters and mad gods. To beat the game, you have to accept failure and keep pushing forward, kind of like accepting the fact that you need to eat food even if the sight of food makes you sick. I persevered through the failure (and nausea), progressing through the game slowly but surely. I eventually beat the game and was also able to keep down delicious plums. At the end of the summer, I was able to return to school. Unlike most high schoolers, I did not agonize over what to wear for the first day of school since I already had my medical mask and drug-induced cheek swelling to make me stand out as the best-looking freshman. Besides, I was just excited that I could finally see my friends after nearly a year of isolation. During middle school I used to stress over every test, project, and even homework worksheets. However, returning to school in 9th grade, I found I was not nearly as stressed as I used to be, as I cared more about my health than my grades. I no longer spent hours into the night staring at my notes, nervously worrying I would forget the details of cell respiration. Instead, I would look over my notes and make sure I understood the content, then go to bed at a reasonable hour knowing that missing a problem or two would not be the end of the world. 

This new perspective carried over to my extracurricular activities. As a member of the stage crew for high school plays, I spend countless hours building and painting, and then rebuilding and repainting when the director changes his mind. It’s a pretty high pressure job, but I never let the stress get to me, and am confident that we will finish on time, even if on time is half an hour before opening night. In my classes, I am also able to enjoy learning for the sake of learning. In AP Chemistry I loved understanding how galvanic cells work and calculating just the right amount of acid needed to neutralize a base. I also make sure to fit in time with friends, which actually makes me more productive when it’s time to study. I like to think of academics like food — you need enough to not just live but feel good, but if you have too much you’ll get sick and throw up. 

Even today, years after I’ve stopped dancing, I walk differently: silently, on my tiptoes, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing. Though it’s very different from my father’s thundering gait, it’s a subtle reminder of my six-year-long commitment to Irish dance.

I am nine, towering over a line of girls far younger than me, the smallest just learning to read in school. It’s an uncomfortable situation; I am embarrassed and feel delayed in my abilities. I sheepishly watch the advanced girls practicing in their hard, tap-style shoes, click-clacking and pounding on the floor. For now, I must focus on conquering the art of holding my arms perfectly fixed to my sides while I skip around the room in my leather-bound feet, careful not to trip.

I am 12, competing in my second Mid-America Oireachtas, the regional championships for Irish dancers from 14 states ranging from North Dakota to Kentucky. I have cultivated my skills to precision, attempting to hit every knock of my heels, defy the pull of the earth with my jumps, and blind the judges with my bracketed smile. Advancing past the second round gives me hope of a national qualification, but I come away 76th: empty-handed, but not empty-hearted.

I am 14, traveling far away from home. Glasgow, Scotland welcomes me with its frigid spring and accents thicker than honey. My nerves are a bird crashing around in its cage as a curly wig is aggressively secured to my scalp. After a final run-through of our nearly five-minute group dance, complete with razor-sharp kicks, turns, and side-stepping, my teammates and I are reminded of the many hours spent in the studio by our grizzled feet, decorated with blisters and calluses the size of dimes. The performance passes in a flash, culminating in a suffocating hug, as we hoist our World Championship globe to the heavens.

I am 15, preparing to compete at my third Mid-America Oireachtas. Music pulses through my headphones as I focus on warming up my jelly legs. My mother, more anxious than me, frantically squeezes me into my two-sizes-too-small, beautiful seafoam blue dress. Though my hands may be unsteady, my feet are not. My movements are perfectly rehearsed, the result of hundreds of hours spent in uncomfortable leather shoes, contorting my body into completely unnatural positions. The tears flow easily as I am called to collect my award: eighth place and World Championship Qualifier, Number 155. My smile is like a sunbeam in a solar eclipse.

I am 15, and I have a stress fracture in my right foot. I take two weeks off to rehabilitate it, leaving me with two weeks to prepare for my third Mid-America Oireachtas. I worry that my years-long preparation might have been for nothing.

I am 15, and I have a stress fracture in my left foot. I have returned from the All-Ireland National Championships, my foot preventing me from competing as an individual. My teachers inform my parents that my dancing career is over. I feel no emotion and I feel all emotion. Who am I without dance?

I am 17 and still experience silent reminders of my time spent Irish dancing: my feet hurt when I wake up in the morning, my posture is unusually good, and my big toes point inward instead of forward. The lasting reminders, however, are unseen. My experiences in dance forged me into someone who is unafraid to venture, to try, in the face of the unknown. While my pursuits now consist of far fewer bobby pins and less shoe polish, I commit to every activity with the same passion and zeal as I did so many years ago in the studio and on the stage. The future is uncertain, but my fortitude is not. I know I will persist, as certainly as I once knew every movement of my dance steps.