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College essays Malorie Elizabeth Pease, Junior, Old Orchard Beach Copyright © 2000 Blethen Maine Newspapers Inc. | |||
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"If you know what career you want to pursue, discuss an event or situation that influenced your decision. Begin by describing the situation rather than summarizing it." Gelly roll glitter pens, safety scissors, leather daytime planners, and Loony Toon pocket folders, the overwhelming excitement of Staples. My mind is in the back-to-school mode and I'm checking my list for the must-have-but-don't-really-need gadgets. I shift my thoughts from trying to justify buying the pack of one thousand stickers to an island that sits towards the back of the store. The smiling stars and pudgy green worms brought back memories of my first grade years. A sign dangled above; "Every teacher has a room, make it your room." The bright range of colors made me walk closer and investigate what was hanging on the steel racks. The calendars with reusable stickers, the wavy Ôunder the sea' border, and the cartoon number charts looked so inviting in the shiny plastic wrapping. I could layer the ladybugs over the flowers and then paint the rays from the sun. I want to teach. Sure I want to "make a difference," "give back," and "feel the reward" of teaching young children, but my primary reason about switching from journalism to teaching six- year-olds hit me at an annual end of summer visit to Staples. One look at the many wall decals, and I was brainstorming ideas of how I could decorate a classroom. My room could be the best in the school and every smudgy-faced kid that walked in would remember it forever. I tell people this story and some laugh at my creativity. Some think I'm shallow and ridiculous, but teaching is what I want to do. I want to listen to the silly comments and the deep thoughts of the children who are at times smarter than a Ph.D. candidate. I've tossed up so many ideas about my future, some that are really just dreams, and some that would send me traveling the world and earning oodles of money but my happiness would be limited. Painting bumblebees and fluffy clouds on walls is my back up. I walk through the halls of an elementary school and I feel happier in the presence of carefree students as they are learning the basis of the rest of their lives. I want to grade shaky handwriting and snowmen made from cotton balls. I want to design a weekly behavior report card with a prize to the "Super Kid of Week." I want to carry a bag that says A+ teacher full of scrambled drawings representing people and dogs named Spot. I've only recently realized my love for children and the importance of having them in my life. Having story time on the big red rug shaped like an apple needs to be my routine schedule. Open houses and holiday plays with dancing Christmas gifts are what I want to take up my spare time. I need children. The sight of children pretending to fly as they swing belly down on a colorful playground increases my longing for tiny desks and knee high sinks with every passing day. Being able to have a pretty room with untied sneakers and plastic lunch boxes in square cubbies is an essential for my career. Money is not an issue, innocent, miniature adults are. William Wordsworth put it best when he wrote, "As have no slight or trivial influence, on that best portion of a good man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love." In other words, it's the little things that please me and having an apple on my desk every morning is all I want. "Discuss the greatest challenge you have had to face or expect to face." I was a pigtails-dress-and-matching-shoes third grader with my Little Mermaid lunch box, and a book bag that was three times my size. I came home every day to my mother, father, baby sister, and beloved stuffed animals. Dinner was ready and waiting to be fought over by two stubborn daughters, and a loving mother who wanted her children to eat the best. The Pease family was just like every other family, living the typical, American lifestyle. At least that was what my parents put on stage for their children's best interest, but backstage it was a completely different script. Suddenly, doors were being slammed, muffled shouts were leaking from the master bedroom, and the perfect four-member family was shattering like a mirror, the reflections of things past too small and scattered to be glued together again. I was annoyingly precocious for my age. I thought too much, and my imagination could have outdone anyone who dared to try. In the beginning, the arguments didn't seem of much importance, so I continued with my make-believe lands and invisible friends. But as tension grew and when Mommy didn't want to sit next to Daddy on the couch, my mind began to process conjectures that I quickly dismissed. As much as Toni, my imaginary bumble bee, would tell me that things like this don't happen to me, the less I believed it. He would hover above my ear and whisper to me that this happens to the kids who are mean and noisy, the ones that get their names written in red chalk on the board -- not to me. July came with its 100% Mississippi humidity, and eighty-degree nights, and with all that came the family vacation. This year we were flying to Maine for a week. The trip had been planned for years and the 4:00 am wake up call from my father, video camera in hand, finally came with much anticipation. We were leaving our troubles and grudges behind, hoping that upon our return the wind would have taken them. The seven days of goofy uncles and grandparents in a log cabin on a peaceful lake was to be the remedy. Returning home was just the finale to the family show. July 9th, 1994 was the hardest day of my life. Nothing I have ever endured can even begin to compare. A piece of my heart withered away that day, a piece that could never be replaced. The last image I can recall is walking down our dark hallway and the sound of my mother's tear flooded yells toward my father. Without any hesitation, I opened the door, and the light increased minimally, only because of the muted glimpses of the TV screen. They silhouetted my father's face as he lay on his side on the queen-size bed. There lay only my father, and my mother was standing at the edge of the bed, hand on hip and tears raining. We briefly looked at each other, and then I shut the door. I flicked on the hall light looking for something to reassure myself. My glossy eyes raced over the framed images of a family that didn't exist anymore. All I could hear in my head was a rambling of the same phrase, "They're not getting divorced — I know it." Once my mother spoke, I screamed and was overcome with tears. We sniffled uncontrollably there on that bed together, embracing each other, the last embrace as a family. I can't accept it; I just live with it. There isn't a day that passes that I don't wish at least once for my family to be rejoined. I envy others who have what I don't. The divorce of my parents over seven years ago was a challenge that I still battle today. My perspective has varied some, but the pain that I felt on that day back in July is now just as strong and sharp. I recall being told by my parents and counselors that I would understand when I got older. Well, I'm older and I don't understand yet. All I understand is that I am a his and hers around the holidays, and that there aren't two people to tuck me in at night.
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