personal essay
I set out to write an essay about who I am while not knowing who I am. A difficult task. As I sifted back through my memories, I found many common threads but one in specific stood out to me: failure. I had always been afraid of failing, and during my childhood, that fear stopped me from trying lots of new things. During my freshman year of high school, I had a falling out with my friend group since elementary school, and was in desperate need of a fresh start. Trying something new meant that I could fail. In fact, it meant that there was a good chance I would. But, with nothing to lose, I tried anyways, and it led me down the path I’m on today. Below is my final essay. I hope you enjoy it.
Common App Essay
I had no natural talent for dance, but starting at age three I tried it all: ballet, tap, jazz. By age ten, I dedicated myself wholly to hip hop. Unlike other dance forms, hip hop was free of rules. It was open, exhilarating, new every time. Looking back, it was a funny choice. With no sense of rhythm and the limb control of a baby calf, you would’ve thought I’d stick with a more structured genre.
Freestyle (improvisational dance) is the heart of hip hop. My teammate Angela had a natural gift for it. Angela would step into the circle (aka cipher) and melt into the music. Watching her, I understood: a “ding!” here, vocal there, the kick, the bass, the melody. But on my own, I would freeze. How could I come up with moves to fit music I had never heard before? One rehearsal, during a freestyle cipher, I fled and cried in the bathroom. Trembling against the stall, I thought I could never do it. Impossible.
Over time, it began to make more sense. I could see it in my head, moves clicking together like puzzle pieces as I listened to the music. I had never been able to give myself the freedom to experiment, even alone in my room. The fear of embarrassment, of failure, had deep roots. I started freestyling in my head — in the car, in the store, in class — but I didn’t allow my body to follow along. I lived in fear of ciphers at rehearsals. I didn’t want to try.
Finally, I had to. After an all-day hip hop intensive in Santa Cruz, teachers gathered everyone together. We were going to play a game. I knew what that meant: freestyling. The roots of fear tightened, squeezing my intestines, suffocating me. What? Not a cipher. Dance battles. One-on-one.
I stood in line. The winner of each round faced the next victim. Makayla, one of the best freestylers I knew, kept winning. The slow shuffle to the front was excruciating, endless. Not endless. My turn. Makayla smiled encouragingly. Mercifully, they played a song I knew well. Terrified, I danced. The moves, long trapped in my brain, had their chance to shine.
Was it an amazing performance? No. Did I lose? Definitely. But I danced, and whether I failed or not didn’t matter. I tried, and everyone cheered for me. When I stepped away, my dance teacher was waiting, arms outstretched. I cried. He told me he was proud. So proud.
When I gave myself the freedom to try, I discovered that I had been suffering from the absence of this permission in other areas of my life. I started making bad choreography, writing bad stories, creating bad films, painting bad pictures. With no experience, I tried out for Varsity cheer and then pushed through embarrassment every practice, rushing to catch up on the cheers, dances, and stunts that the rest already knew. When my teammates spoke in Spanish, I responded in my high-school-class rendition of the language, much to their delight. I applied for the part-time art school in my district. I started shooting hoops with my little brother, practicing backbends with my little sister, playing video games with my older brother, running with my dad. I started doing things because I wanted to and because they were fun, without worrying about how I looked doing them.
Trying brought its own rewards. Miraculously, the bad choreography, stories, films, and pictures turned good. I became Varsity Cheer Captain. I got to PA on a real film set and to produce projects of my own. I became a dance teacher, if not a freestyling champion. Not all of the seeds I planted took root: I am still not good at basketball or backbends or video games or running. But I didn’t plant the seeds for the fruit. I just like to watch them grow.