Possible college essay. Only it's far too long.
When you’re five years old, you don’t think much about the future. All that you really want are hugs, the best swing on the playground, the occasional nap, the toy that your brother or sister is playing with, and a cookie now and then. Life is so simple. Or so we think.
At the age of five, I myself was a typical child. Being the first-born and the only girl in my family, I was “special.” Or, needless to say, my parents doted upon me, telling me that I was smart and cute and everything else I wanted to hear. I was the prodigy, the child parents bragged about to their friends, the one that read picture books and recited the alphabet to anyone who would listen until their ears fell off. I craved attention (but then again, what little kid doesn’t?) and adults were willing to give it to me, because I was charming and intelligent. This in turn turned me into a charming and intelligent five-year-old egomaniac.
I thought that I was special, and that I was the smartest kid that ever lived, because no one had ever told me otherwise. One would think that going to kindergarten and being around other kids would humble me with a bit of competition, but in turn it did the opposite. I strived to be the best: to become the teacher’s favorite, to turn in all my papers before everyone else, to be the first in line to go outside. I was even put into a special reading group with a few other kids who knew how to read, while the rest of the class practiced their alphabets and traced block letters onto fat white pieces of construction paper.
I became so used to hearing constant praise that I began to think that I could do no wrong. I think I even regarded myself as - dare I say it - perfect. However, no-five-year old can live on top of the world forever. Inevitably, my self-absorbed tendencies would lead to my downfall.
The day I realized that I was not, in fact, as special as I thought I was, began entirely ordinarily. I imagine that I got there as always, (by means of a long ride in the back of my mother’s car, kicking the back of her seat when I got bored), kissed her goodbye, played with some toys, swang on the swings, dug in the sandbox, and picked the ladyslippers even though my teacher told us not to. The events that happen twelve years ago are rather hazy, to be completely honest. Years of childhood memories tend to jumble into one, leaving me with a menagerie of facts, and more often than not, bits of fiction to fill in the gaps.
It’s peculiar, then, how I can pinpoint a few moments of my life at the age of five ever so clearly in my mind, and trace how a single event has affected me until today. It began with a simple task: my kindergarten teacher handed everyone in the class worksheets with black-and white pictures on them, outlined much like a coloring book, and a small packet of crayons. Easy-to-follow instructions were stated boldly at the top: “Color the kitten brown; color the apple red; color the boat blue; color the frog green.” She read the instructions out loud to everyone, and then we all sat down and got to work. I looked around me and saw everyone staring, immersed in their papers, some chewing on the ends of their crayons in fierce concentration. This is easy! I thought. Why on earth is everyone else working so hard on this? I wondered. It’s not like we have to write out our letters or anything.
And so I began to color.
Color the kitten brown. I picked up the brown crayon, determined to finish my worksheet before anyone else did, because that’s how I always did it. Aiming the crayon at the kitten, I quickly scribbled over the picture, not bothering to color in the lines or to draw in short, neat strokes resembling kitten’s fur, like most of my classmates. I have to finish first!
Color the apple red. Again I colored, rapidly and messily. Hurry hurry hurry, some people are already coloring their boats! I continued to scribble. Color the boat blue. Faster and faster I colored, breaking the blue crayon in the process. Color the frog green. This I colored with utmost imprecision, stopping after a few swirls of color, making the frog look as if its guts were spewing out of its sides, instead of the bright and smiley cookie-cutter frogs everyone else was coloring.
Done! I scrambled up from my chair, walking fast, almost running, to the teacher. “I’m done! I’m done!” I squealed, jumping up and down, and handed her my paper.
But instead of the words of praise I expected, I saw instead a disappointed look on her face. “Laura,” she said, “this is not your best work. Do you see the scribbles? This is not coloring in the lines. I’d like you to go back to your seat and do it again.”
What?! my mind was screaming. How dare you criticize my work! Don’t you know who you’re talking to? I am Girl Who Does No Wrong!
But instead I stammered “O-okay…” and went back to my seat, an unmarked worksheet in my hand, and began to color. Again.
I was furious. I went back and began to color, painstakingly, each little picture. Instead of scribbling, I colored in neat little sections, exactly in the lines, but excruciatingly slowly, both as a result of pure stubborn defiance and my desire to make my teacher happy. After forty-five minutes, I was finally done. I was, not the first, as I had hoped, to turn my worksheet in, but the last.
When I handed the new completed worksheet to my teacher, she looked at me strangely, with a mixture of fondness and curiosity. “This, Laura,” she said, “is your best work. I knew you could do it. Now, if you could work like this all the time…” and her voice trailed.
But the message was clear: being first really wasn’t what was important. It was the finished product, neat and clear and truly perfect, that was. I had been backwards all along. While my classmates were striving to create the best pictures that they possibly could, I was trying to be first, to be perfect. I was in a competition to win some unnamed prize in my mind, except that no one was competing but myself.
That was my first real exposure to criticism. It hurt at the time, but it - and every bit of criticism I’ve received since - taught me that no one, not even me, is perfect, and that sometimes what you think is “good enough” really isn’t. It also taught me that I really wasn’t all that special in the first place. I couldn’t be the best all the time; it was impossible. Instead, I learned to try to work as hard as I could to the best of my ability, but that competing with everyone else -hard as it was to avoid it - was fruitless.
I’d like to say that being told to redo a worksheet in kindergarten was a tiny event, and in the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter at all, but in reality I think it has changed me for the better. Today, I am far less competitive with my peers, and certainly don’t think of myself as “perfect” anymore. Sure, I have my flaws, but I don’t concentrate on being first or best or special. Instead, I’m more laid back. I care about my studies because I enjoy them, but not because I want other people to see me as “the smartest girl in the world.”
At the age of five, no one thinks about how simple events will change their lives tomorrow. I sure didn’t - I sulked for the rest of the day about being reprimanded - but eventually, years later, I got it. We think that childhood is all about toys and friends and it’s oh-so-simple, but it really isn’t. It’s about making mistakes and learning from them, but they might not seem significant at the age of five. Some of these little things, seemingly simple things, you’ll remember forever.
And then maybe, years later, you’ll see just how far they take you.