When application essays and blogging collide

There is a large walk-in closet in my house that my father converted into a library. The four shelves that run around the perimeter of the room are sagging from the excessive weight that rests on them. Those shelves, in essence, are bearing the weight of my education on their shoulders. James Barrie, Brian Jacques, C. S. Lewis, Charles Dickens, John Steinbeck and F. Scott Fitzgerald crowd each other on the shelves of our library. Classic authors, they are world renowned for their literary achievements. Among others, they have each played a somewhat lesser known role–that of my educator.

When I was not yet two years old, my mother was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Disease. Severely weakened by daily treatments of chemotherapy, all she could manage was to sit with me in front of the television. For hours I watched the same episodes of Sesame Street, becoming so familiar with the script that I began calling lines before they were said. My mother is not one to condone unlimited television time and is a strong proponent of the, “TV will turn you into a zombie” theory. Finally, she could tolerate it no more; Mom sent Big Bird off to migrate for the winter.

In his place, she held The Story of Peter Pan. It was a gigantic book with full color, 12X20 illustrations. Its total page number ran well past 150. With a steely resolve, despite her painful mouth and throat, my mom plowed through the entire story with me in one morning sitting. For the next week, seven times a day, she read that story aloud to me. She had no idea how long we had together, no idea if our days of stories would give way to days of imponderable sorrow. But she knew that between the covers of the books we could find great adventures together and if she were to die, I would have cultivated a habit of appreciating the treasure of literature. Peter Pan ceded to Robin Hood, and Robin Hood was replaced by King Arthur, and so it went for the next two years. 

The cancer was in remission when my friends enrolled in preschool. My parents made a bold decision. They had learned that time and energy were precious and that both could be better utilized by learning at home within our family and in the world, with my father, than in an institutional school. I would read.  I would travel. I would work.  I would learn. My mother, a graduate of the University of Virginia’s School of Education and a lover of great books, would proctor my education. She built a curriculum on living books. For every major historical event there was an accompanying literary masterpiece. A mother reading a picture book to her son spawned a life that is inextricably intertwined with literature.

There has been an author for every noteworthy stride in my educational journey. When I was twelve, I began reading novels by Brian Jacques. His meticulous style of writing carefully described every scene. I began imitating him, and slowly, the horrible speller who could not construct a simple sentence to save his life, was writing in the style of a great British storyteller.

 As my essays began to mature, so too, did my interest in writing. I moved past the fantasy of Brian Jacques and began delving into the philosophical musings of C. S. Lewis. At fourteen, much of what Lewis had to say went soaring over my head. However, I did learn how to formulate a large idea and present it on paper in a critical manner. Countless times, Lewis has set before me a banquet of food for thought.

 If C.S. Lewis taught me how to philosophize in writing, then Charles Dickens instructed me on the importance of appealing to a reader’s senses. It is impossible not to feel the cold cobblestones under David Copperfield’s feet nor smell the blood and steel in revolutionary France. Dickens demonstrated that a good writer uses sensory detail to make his point.

I turned west across the Atlantic in my junior and senior years of high school. It was at that time that I learned the power of subtle allegory from John Steinbeck and F. Scott Fitzgerald.  I enjoyed The Grapes of Wrath, yet it was Steinbeck’s short story, The Pearl that struck a nerve inside of me. Reading and feeling as his characters fell away from their pious beginnings, contorting to the whims of malice and greed, I could not help but breathe in awe at the fluidity of Steinbeck. To this very day, I love reliving the dark, sordid tale of The Great Gatsby through the eyes of Nick Carraway.

These brilliant authors have influenced my prose and have formed my intellect. I’ve grown up steeped in literature. As I step into the closet, slightly reminiscent of a wardrobe I once passed through in a novel, I cannot help but feel attached to the treasure held on the shelves.  Each book is a bit of the mosaic that is my life. It would not be a stretch to say my personality is comprised of the exuberance of Peter Pan, the faith of Lucy Pevensie, the buoyancy of Jay Gatsby, the resolve of the Joad family, and perhaps a bit of mischief, courtesy of the Artful Dodger.

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