Suzanne Maggio

View Original

The Essay

Imagine if you had to write an essay that had the potential to decide your future. “It’s only 500 words,” the high school senior said, dismissing it as though it meant nothing.

There is a story I tell my students to demonstrate awareness. A story to remind them to pay attention to the now.

I spend a lot of time in my car. Work and carpools and commuting take up hours of each day. I confess to them that I sometimes drive from point A to point B never truly paying attention. My eyes are open, of course, but I don’t really see what’s in front of me. I arrive at my destination realizing I’m not quite sure how I got there, my mind preoccupied in its very own schizophrenic state, cluttered with the chaos of the moment.

Life is what happens, John Lennon said, while we are busy making other plans. Being in the now is hard.

“It’s only 500 words,” he said again when my husband asked him when he was going to sit down and write the supplemental essay that would accompany the college application that was being sent off bright and early Monday morning.

500 words to tell a group of strangers who don’t know you something about yourself that will make them curious. Make them interested. Encourage them to open their door just a crack to take a look and maybe, just maybe, give you a key to your future.

It’s only 500 words.

There is a scene in the Wizard of Oz when we first meet the Scarecrow. Dorothy is wandering along the Yellow Brick Road dressed in her blue gingham dress, her dog Toto faithfully by her side. She comes to an intersection, roads to the east and west stretch before her. “Now which way do we go?” she asks her trusted companion.

“This way is a very nice way,” the scarecrow says, from out of the blue. Her trusted companion barks.

“Don’t be silly Toto, scarecrows don’t talk.”

“It’s pleasant down that way too,” he says again, pointing in the other direction. “Of course, some people do go both ways.”

Choose.

“Tell them something about yourself,” I say again. He is walking on the Yellow Brick Road. Just up ahead is the crossroads. He will have to make a choice. I am Toto and I am barking as loudly as I can.

It’s only 500 words.

“It’s done,” he said after a while. “I need you to take a look.”

“You have to show them who you are,” I say to him as I peruse the 473 words that he has chosen to introduce himself to this panel of faceless individuals who will decide his future. “Don’t tell them, show them.”

Grumble. Grumble. “Why do I have to have a mother who was an English major?” All I can do is shake my head. We’ve been down this road before. Was I like this when I was 17? (Don’t answer that, Mom.)

Many years have passed since I stood blindly at that crossroads, wondering which way to go. It likely was a blessing that I did not realize the magnitude of the decision I was about to make. I was just as confused, I imagine, as the creature that sat at my desk, honing the now 492 words that would be his calling card, this baby boy turned almost man.

On Saturday night I attended the 50th birthday party of a dear friend’s husband. A familiar faced stood in front of me in the buffet line as we waited our turn to fill our plates with food. “Do you remember me?” I asked as I tapped her on the shoulder. “My son went to your preschool many years ago.”

“Oh yes,” she said, after a moment and she put her hands down by her knees, patting an invisible head as she remembered this tiny person from her past. “Is he still blonde?” she asked.

Laughing, I pulled out my iPhone and showed her what he had become.

We reminisced for a long time. She kept a daily journal for the children in her preschool. We still had it. In fact, I had come across it just the other day when I was rifling through his “box” where I keep all of those touchstones of his childhood. It was in there along with the first year calendar and the lock of hair, his first lost tooth, spelling bee ribbons and the invitations for his “big truck” birthday party he had when he was 3. It’s all in there. 17 years of twists and turns along the yellow brick road. 17 years of moments collected along the way. A box full of his journey: moments noticed and some, sadly, not. It is a box full of him.

Too bad he can’t send them that.