the beginnings of an essay
A little more than twelve hours ago, I was sitting in a cheap plastic chair, which was silently yet willfully determined to never yield to my personal comfort, amongst many of my sweaty peers. The lighting in the auditorium revealed any physical flaw while administering an aura of discomfort; this discomfort may easily have also been attributed to the fact that any time I found myself in that room it was to take an exam, observe some sporting event, or attend Prize Day (the last being the setting of this certain occasion), which are all situations that I do not enjoy. I zoned in and out as the department heads of my dear prep school awarded what seemed like hundreds of merited (pointless) awards to particularly excelling students (and eventually, some students who are just nice). I listened during the English awards, because that was a category which almost interested me. Some senior girl, whose name now escapes me, won an award for creative writing, and I remembered reading a very short nonfiction essay she had written for the school’s literary magazine. I do not claim to be a talented writer, however, I am able to spot poor writing. Her essay had all the inspiring aspects of happiness turning into mild despair, then eventually overcoming this tragic event in the next paragraph with the help of family and friends and her golden retriever, and ending on a hopeful and deeply meaningful note of triumph against all odds. It had all the essential endearing comical lines in it, and left the reader feeling like he or she would be able to accomplish anything after learning a valuable lesson. And here inlays my first complaint with the story: it was falsely labeled as nonfiction. Perhaps it could have been a lovely story for a child, if accompanied by colorful pictures on large glossy pieces of paper, but at her age it was disappointing. If I’ve learned anything after seventeen years of life, it is the depressing fact that very few people really ever encounter such black and white versions of good and evil, and even more rarely ever defeat the evil. It’s just that these few stories are told far more often than the saturnine stories of the majority, who never truly sort shit out and live, at best, in near-contentment.