208. How you overcame a fear.
Having gotten a C+ on my very first assignment, I was absolutely discouraged when the teacher told us that we would be having our first, graded oral presentations. Now I know, as well as anybody else, that I cannot speak confidently in public. Even when it came to class discussions, I tried to fulfill just the minimum requirement. Also, having two excellent speakers sitting right next to me, I couldn't have imagined what would be worse.
Our teacher told us that we had two or three days to prepare a presentation about anything we felt passionate about. Now I have to admit that I am quite an environment-friendly person. In the future, I hope to make some difference to the negative impacts and their results in our environment. And for something that I felt so passionately about, I was, at first, very ready to speak about it.
That evening, I stood in front of the larger window of my bedroom at dorms, and looked at my reflection. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine exactly what I would say in order to get my message across. I knew that the only way I could overcome this fear was practice. I would practice and practice so much that the words would flow elegantly out of my mouth while making absolute sense. So I stood there, for an hour or two, and wrote down on a small piece of paper an outline that would help me. I practiced the introduction very well, as I was quite excited to bang my fist on the table right in front of the class, look up with glaring eyes, and begin a strong speech.
When the day came, I was worried and nervous. Scared that I would screw up somehow. My teacher, to be fair, let us draw numbers from a bag in order to see who would go today or tomorrow. I nervously inserted my hand inside the pouch and drew out a piece of paper. With my two friends anxiously leaning over me to see what I had gotten, I nervously unfolded the paper to see that I had gotten number 2. This meant that I would go the next day. As the relief washed over me, my hands stopped shaking as did my legs. I sat back sheepishly, enjoying the state of my many nervous friends. As I was getting used to the idea of getting more practice, the teacher came up to me and asked if I would mind going today because a boy had not prepared for today and wanted to go tomorrow. Hating the feeling of giving in, I told her I could go today. As I became nervous again, I started reciting the speech inside my head, hoping desperately that I hadn't forgotten anything.
When my turn came, I nervously walked up to the front of the class. As the teacher said "Ready when you are," I closed my eyes for a second and took a long breath. I opened my eyes. The faces of classmates seem to engulf my attention as their faces because curious and ready for me to begin. When I was ready, I realized that the front table was too far away to start my frightening introduction. Giving up on that thought, I began, "Trash, trash, trash. Why is there so much trash? Is it because..."
I spoke for three whole minutes, peering from face to face, really trying to get my message across. I remember even looking out the window, at the trees outside, and almost losing my train of thought! As I finished my conclusion, I let of a great sign and felt grateful for the support my friends gave with their slow, yet encouraging applause.
Other than the A I got on my speech, I did get something else out of the assignment. I understood that I just needed to practice, to be familiar with what I am saying, and public speaking wouldn't be so bad after all. I can't say that I completely overcame my fear of public speaking that day, but I can say that I found a way around it.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Challenge 35. Things Lost
221. Your biggest loss
As a child, I took the poster of Ariel and copied it down exactly onto a blank piece of white paper. I tried to match the colors exactly the way they were and trace the lines as accurately as possible. No matter how hard I tried, it never looked the same. I was disappointed. I cried. My mother would run to be, take me in her arms, and rock me till I fell asleep. I would wake up later, having forgotten what had happened, and would sit down and try again.
When I feel off the bike, I would scrape my knee and lay there, being the dramatic child I was, and cry but act like a hero with a long, red cloth hanging from his shoulders. I would get up, run to my mother, and ask me to apply some Dettol, with cotton and everything just to look important.
When I scored high in my papers, I would have a winning smile on my face. I would show it to all my friends and shine in their admiration, without feeling the tiniest bit of guilt or shame for having showed-off. Even when I would fail again, I would still be happy of my previous accomplishments.
When my sister and I walked home from school, the scary shoe-man from the side of the road would call us. I would repeat the phrase "Don't talk to strangers" in my head, grab my little sister's hand, and walk briskly back home.
When there was a family gathering, they would ask me to sing and dance, while all of them sat back and relaxed. I would walk up confidently and dance to the beats of their clapping, while twirling around all on my own.
When I was taken to the library, I would pick out the books with large pictures. I would sit on the comfortable couch and flip through the pages, trying to make the illustrations real and become a part of it myself.
When it was Children's Day at my school, I would ask my mom to make me a dress just like the one Miss Nepal wore. With that height of honor and pleasure, I would walk into the school, feeling like a queen, with the green silk glowing majestically in the sunlight.
But, when I gave my first art exam, things started to seem different. I drew hills, and trees, and flowers, and a river, and also a sun with a big, smiling face. However, in front of the class, I heard the teacher scold another child for drawing a smiling face of the sun. She screamed, "Do you really thing the sun can smile?" Reality seemed to struck that day as I quickly erased the smiling face from mine.
All these things, the little things that are shown in these childish events, I have lost: the curiosity, the amazement, the confidence, the importance I felt, and the mind to take chances and to never give up. Reality seemed to have struck me as I drew away from my childhood. It became harder to be confident in front of a group of people and more difficult not to just thrown my hands into the air and admit that I can't do this anymore. I don't mean that I am a completely hopeless human being at present. No. I mean that these qualities became harder to enhance once I grew up. And other things started to matter more: what I wore, how I looked, what people thought, and things that really shouldn't bother me at all. So everyday, I try to gain back the innocence and the beauty of childhood and hope that I can take these qualities away from my childhood and into adulthood.
As a child, I took the poster of Ariel and copied it down exactly onto a blank piece of white paper. I tried to match the colors exactly the way they were and trace the lines as accurately as possible. No matter how hard I tried, it never looked the same. I was disappointed. I cried. My mother would run to be, take me in her arms, and rock me till I fell asleep. I would wake up later, having forgotten what had happened, and would sit down and try again.
When I feel off the bike, I would scrape my knee and lay there, being the dramatic child I was, and cry but act like a hero with a long, red cloth hanging from his shoulders. I would get up, run to my mother, and ask me to apply some Dettol, with cotton and everything just to look important.
When I scored high in my papers, I would have a winning smile on my face. I would show it to all my friends and shine in their admiration, without feeling the tiniest bit of guilt or shame for having showed-off. Even when I would fail again, I would still be happy of my previous accomplishments.
When my sister and I walked home from school, the scary shoe-man from the side of the road would call us. I would repeat the phrase "Don't talk to strangers" in my head, grab my little sister's hand, and walk briskly back home.
When there was a family gathering, they would ask me to sing and dance, while all of them sat back and relaxed. I would walk up confidently and dance to the beats of their clapping, while twirling around all on my own.
When I was taken to the library, I would pick out the books with large pictures. I would sit on the comfortable couch and flip through the pages, trying to make the illustrations real and become a part of it myself.
When it was Children's Day at my school, I would ask my mom to make me a dress just like the one Miss Nepal wore. With that height of honor and pleasure, I would walk into the school, feeling like a queen, with the green silk glowing majestically in the sunlight.
But, when I gave my first art exam, things started to seem different. I drew hills, and trees, and flowers, and a river, and also a sun with a big, smiling face. However, in front of the class, I heard the teacher scold another child for drawing a smiling face of the sun. She screamed, "Do you really thing the sun can smile?" Reality seemed to struck that day as I quickly erased the smiling face from mine.
All these things, the little things that are shown in these childish events, I have lost: the curiosity, the amazement, the confidence, the importance I felt, and the mind to take chances and to never give up. Reality seemed to have struck me as I drew away from my childhood. It became harder to be confident in front of a group of people and more difficult not to just thrown my hands into the air and admit that I can't do this anymore. I don't mean that I am a completely hopeless human being at present. No. I mean that these qualities became harder to enhance once I grew up. And other things started to matter more: what I wore, how I looked, what people thought, and things that really shouldn't bother me at all. So everyday, I try to gain back the innocence and the beauty of childhood and hope that I can take these qualities away from my childhood and into adulthood.
Challenge 34: I'm not listening.
246. What I think about when I'm not listening.
I think about...
How my hair feels oily because I haven't showered today.
How her mouth moves so much that I feel like I am watching her in a fast-forward motion.
How the tips of my fingers are cold from the chilly weather.
How her hands move animatedly as the anger is visible from her brows.
How the frames of my glasses limit what I can see.
How I could almost imagine the letters bubbling out of her mouth.
How my mouth is slightly open while I try to catch the words she is saying.
How the sky is such a clear blue today.
How the sun is gently playing with her brown, dyed hair and creating a yellow glow.
How she seems to blur in front of me as I focus into the distance.
How many times I am blinking.
How my legs are aching and how badly I wish to sit down.
How long this is going to last.
How I have to finish that assignment I am detesting.
How the flowers on the rooftop of the house across are shining, almost like plastic.
How I keep nodding though I don't really listen to what she is saying.
How I can taste the dryness of my mouth because I haven't spoken for so long.
How the smile is playing at my lips because I know I should be listening.
How her teeth seem to enlarge as she bends down towards me in anger.
How I can slowly see that she is getting tired of scolding me.
How this is finally coming to an end.
How life will be different 20 years from now if I had listened to her.
How she throws her arms in a jerky motion into the air; a sign of finally giving up.
How she sits down on the couch, close to tears.
How my legs are moving automatically towards her.
How I sit down calmly next to her and put my arms around her.
How, although I am a good daughter, I am happy that it is finally over.
I think about...
How my hair feels oily because I haven't showered today.
How her mouth moves so much that I feel like I am watching her in a fast-forward motion.
How the tips of my fingers are cold from the chilly weather.
How her hands move animatedly as the anger is visible from her brows.
How the frames of my glasses limit what I can see.
How I could almost imagine the letters bubbling out of her mouth.
How my mouth is slightly open while I try to catch the words she is saying.
How the sky is such a clear blue today.
How the sun is gently playing with her brown, dyed hair and creating a yellow glow.
How she seems to blur in front of me as I focus into the distance.
How many times I am blinking.
How my legs are aching and how badly I wish to sit down.
How long this is going to last.
How I have to finish that assignment I am detesting.
How the flowers on the rooftop of the house across are shining, almost like plastic.
How I keep nodding though I don't really listen to what she is saying.
How I can taste the dryness of my mouth because I haven't spoken for so long.
How the smile is playing at my lips because I know I should be listening.
How her teeth seem to enlarge as she bends down towards me in anger.
How I can slowly see that she is getting tired of scolding me.
How this is finally coming to an end.
How life will be different 20 years from now if I had listened to her.
How she throws her arms in a jerky motion into the air; a sign of finally giving up.
How she sits down on the couch, close to tears.
How my legs are moving automatically towards her.
How I sit down calmly next to her and put my arms around her.
How, although I am a good daughter, I am happy that it is finally over.
Challenge 33: Gifts
240. Is it better to give or receive gifts?
The tiny box wrapped in shiny pink paper with beautiful, white circles awaited me. It was my birthday present from my parents, for I had turned eleven. Feeling like an adult, I tried really hard to wipe out the excitement from my face, although I knew that as soon as I was alone, I would rip out the wrapping and engulf myself in what lay inside the box. It didn't matter to me as I child what lay inside. The part I enjoyed most was the excitement that rushed through me as I guessed so many times what gift could be waiting for me just a fold away! As I grew older, my mother asked me what I wanted and said that she would get that for my birthday. I refused, quite childishly, I admit. I didn't want to ruin the surprise for myself. Whatever the gift was, it didn't matter. As long as it was wrapped with a ribbon on, I was happy.
This is what gifts means to me: the excitement. Other than the surprise, I love receiving gifts because I get to see how the other person thinks of me. If it is a beautiful, navy blue pen, then I become a writer. If it is a long, colorful scarf, then I become a complainer. If it is a book that I had been longing for, then I become a passionate reader. If it is an iPod that I had wanted since quite some time ago, I become patient. If it is a statue of two little houses with two names scribbled in blue ink at the bottom, then I become a friend. If it is a notebook with large characters in its cover, I become an artist. If it is a key chain with an outlandish yet cute animal hanging from it, then I am accepted the way I am. If it is a hair tie with a pretty, yellow flower with colorful polka dots, I become an amiable person. If it is just a notebook with beautiful flowers in red, blue, and yellow, then I become doodler or a scribbler. These gifts show what I appear to be to the person giving it. And this not only delights me, but also lets me know what kind of a person I am to other people.
The tiny box wrapped in shiny pink paper with beautiful, white circles awaited me. It was my birthday present from my parents, for I had turned eleven. Feeling like an adult, I tried really hard to wipe out the excitement from my face, although I knew that as soon as I was alone, I would rip out the wrapping and engulf myself in what lay inside the box. It didn't matter to me as I child what lay inside. The part I enjoyed most was the excitement that rushed through me as I guessed so many times what gift could be waiting for me just a fold away! As I grew older, my mother asked me what I wanted and said that she would get that for my birthday. I refused, quite childishly, I admit. I didn't want to ruin the surprise for myself. Whatever the gift was, it didn't matter. As long as it was wrapped with a ribbon on, I was happy.
This is what gifts means to me: the excitement. Other than the surprise, I love receiving gifts because I get to see how the other person thinks of me. If it is a beautiful, navy blue pen, then I become a writer. If it is a long, colorful scarf, then I become a complainer. If it is a book that I had been longing for, then I become a passionate reader. If it is an iPod that I had wanted since quite some time ago, I become patient. If it is a statue of two little houses with two names scribbled in blue ink at the bottom, then I become a friend. If it is a notebook with large characters in its cover, I become an artist. If it is a key chain with an outlandish yet cute animal hanging from it, then I am accepted the way I am. If it is a hair tie with a pretty, yellow flower with colorful polka dots, I become an amiable person. If it is just a notebook with beautiful flowers in red, blue, and yellow, then I become doodler or a scribbler. These gifts show what I appear to be to the person giving it. And this not only delights me, but also lets me know what kind of a person I am to other people.
Challenge 32: HERO
168. Imagine that you are a "hero" or "heroine" for one day during any time period and under any circumstances. Write a creative essay describing your experience. (Notre Dame)
It is around midday. I am sitting in the armchair that is clothed with red silk and decorated with green cushions. I am reading a book. The book is very interesting and is helping me gain knowledge about the world that existed so long ago. I see that I have read thirty pages in one hour. I am quite pleased at myself, seeing how the writing on the old, yellow pages are just so tiny. As tiny as ants, in fact. Although my mind starts to wonder off, I pull it right back and continue reading about the young African boy who has just found out that his headmaster had lied to him. REVENGE is all he can think right now. I imagine what I would do if someone betrayed me like that. I would probably want revenge too. Does that make me a bad person? Hm. I continue to wonder.
As the book slips off my hand and I stare into the distant pink wall bathed so elegantly in the bright, yellow sunlight, I notice something. Something that I could have sworn wasn't there previously. I thrown the book down and move swiftly across the room and towards the wall. My eyes are narrowed, my mouth open, and my hands gliding helpless in the air. I feel almost like I am floating. As I get closer to the wall, I see it. On the polished ground, just where the soft pink of the wall and the shiny brown of the polished wood meet, there is a living thing. A breathing thing, that has life just like me. It is lying there, with the appearance of a rock, although I can tell that it is breathing, very heavily. I bend down on my knees and bring my face very close to this peculiar object. I notice the thin feather-like substance that is covering every bit of this creature. As it rolls, I see two beady, delicate, brown balls, which I imagine are the eyes, on a head so small that I could circle it with my two fingers. The little eyes are crying for help and I can see them slowly shutting, meaning to close forever. As it rolls once more, I see two out-stretched wing-like things, which I assume are, of course, used to fly with. There seems to be bright, red paint smeared on of the wings and the contrasting brown of the feather tells me that something is not right.
Having never encountered such an alien object, it crosses my mind to call somebody else, someone who would know better. However, I want to handle this on my own. I delicately stretch my hands out and gather the helpless fellow in my hands. I take it back to the armchair and rest it there, while I go fetch some medicine. We usually don't have one around, but surprisingly, I see one lying right inside the cabinet. I hurry back, hoping desperately that I am not too late. I play with the medication and try to put everything I had learned in my classes into use. The little ball of feathers already starts to look better. And just like that, I feel like I am a superhero who has saved the day.
It is around midday. I am sitting in the armchair that is clothed with red silk and decorated with green cushions. I am reading a book. The book is very interesting and is helping me gain knowledge about the world that existed so long ago. I see that I have read thirty pages in one hour. I am quite pleased at myself, seeing how the writing on the old, yellow pages are just so tiny. As tiny as ants, in fact. Although my mind starts to wonder off, I pull it right back and continue reading about the young African boy who has just found out that his headmaster had lied to him. REVENGE is all he can think right now. I imagine what I would do if someone betrayed me like that. I would probably want revenge too. Does that make me a bad person? Hm. I continue to wonder.
As the book slips off my hand and I stare into the distant pink wall bathed so elegantly in the bright, yellow sunlight, I notice something. Something that I could have sworn wasn't there previously. I thrown the book down and move swiftly across the room and towards the wall. My eyes are narrowed, my mouth open, and my hands gliding helpless in the air. I feel almost like I am floating. As I get closer to the wall, I see it. On the polished ground, just where the soft pink of the wall and the shiny brown of the polished wood meet, there is a living thing. A breathing thing, that has life just like me. It is lying there, with the appearance of a rock, although I can tell that it is breathing, very heavily. I bend down on my knees and bring my face very close to this peculiar object. I notice the thin feather-like substance that is covering every bit of this creature. As it rolls, I see two beady, delicate, brown balls, which I imagine are the eyes, on a head so small that I could circle it with my two fingers. The little eyes are crying for help and I can see them slowly shutting, meaning to close forever. As it rolls once more, I see two out-stretched wing-like things, which I assume are, of course, used to fly with. There seems to be bright, red paint smeared on of the wings and the contrasting brown of the feather tells me that something is not right.
Having never encountered such an alien object, it crosses my mind to call somebody else, someone who would know better. However, I want to handle this on my own. I delicately stretch my hands out and gather the helpless fellow in my hands. I take it back to the armchair and rest it there, while I go fetch some medicine. We usually don't have one around, but surprisingly, I see one lying right inside the cabinet. I hurry back, hoping desperately that I am not too late. I play with the medication and try to put everything I had learned in my classes into use. The little ball of feathers already starts to look better. And just like that, I feel like I am a superhero who has saved the day.
Challenge 31: Confusion
165. What confuses you most in life, and why? (University of Virginia)
As an elder sister of two siblings, I am usually the role model in the family. However, when in comes to attitude and reactions to things that bother me, I have to admit my sister handles it better. For example, when I have a headache, my whole day is ruined. I cannot function and I just have to lay down and do nothing. I get grumpy and annoyed at little things and become quite selfish, I admit.I ruin my day as well as everyone else's. My sister, on the other hand, can handle an insignificant thing like a headache way better than me. Although the pain is bothering her, she will shrug it off, put a smile on her face, and move on with her life. But I can't do the same. Why can't I? Well, because I don't want to shrug off something that is bothering me, and instead, I want to see to it that I get a painkiller. And that is the difference between us. When it comes to situations like these where the attitude is concerned, rather than the problem itself, my sister can handle it better. However, does that mean that I have to change the way I am in order to approach life the way my sister does? They say, "Why can't you be more like your sister?" Well, no, I can't. And I won't change my attitude just to match my sister's. Yes, maybe I do need to keep in mind that I am taking up somebody else's time and being rather pessimistic, but is asking to be cared for too much? Usually, people get annoyed at me for being grumpy and inconsiderate. They think that I am just wasting my time complaining and that it is bothering them. This is where I get confused. Why can't I express my pessimistic side? Why can't I get to be angry or mad or frustrated or annoyed? Why are other people so bothered by them anyway? These are my emotions too, and I should be able to express them, right? And being cynical at times is good because I am expressing what I am feeling and am not trying to hide it. I want to show that I am bothered, that I am uncomfortable, and that I do not like way things are going. I want to express my feelings because being cynical or any other negative emotion is a part of me, whether everyone likes it or not. And because I am the one who gets to control my own emotions, I will choose to express them or not, no matter the case.
As an elder sister of two siblings, I am usually the role model in the family. However, when in comes to attitude and reactions to things that bother me, I have to admit my sister handles it better. For example, when I have a headache, my whole day is ruined. I cannot function and I just have to lay down and do nothing. I get grumpy and annoyed at little things and become quite selfish, I admit.I ruin my day as well as everyone else's. My sister, on the other hand, can handle an insignificant thing like a headache way better than me. Although the pain is bothering her, she will shrug it off, put a smile on her face, and move on with her life. But I can't do the same. Why can't I? Well, because I don't want to shrug off something that is bothering me, and instead, I want to see to it that I get a painkiller. And that is the difference between us. When it comes to situations like these where the attitude is concerned, rather than the problem itself, my sister can handle it better. However, does that mean that I have to change the way I am in order to approach life the way my sister does? They say, "Why can't you be more like your sister?" Well, no, I can't. And I won't change my attitude just to match my sister's. Yes, maybe I do need to keep in mind that I am taking up somebody else's time and being rather pessimistic, but is asking to be cared for too much? Usually, people get annoyed at me for being grumpy and inconsiderate. They think that I am just wasting my time complaining and that it is bothering them. This is where I get confused. Why can't I express my pessimistic side? Why can't I get to be angry or mad or frustrated or annoyed? Why are other people so bothered by them anyway? These are my emotions too, and I should be able to express them, right? And being cynical at times is good because I am expressing what I am feeling and am not trying to hide it. I want to show that I am bothered, that I am uncomfortable, and that I do not like way things are going. I want to express my feelings because being cynical or any other negative emotion is a part of me, whether everyone likes it or not. And because I am the one who gets to control my own emotions, I will choose to express them or not, no matter the case.
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