“And they wrote Rama’s name on the rocks, which then floated on the water, and were able to build a bridge across the ocean to Lanka. Every living thing helped in this great endeavor; even squirrels would deposit small pebbles to enlarge the bridge, and the great monkey architect Nala oversaw…”
I yawned. This was probably the Gazillionth time I had heard this story, and the monotonous speaker and uncomfortable, hard ground I was sitting on crossed-legged in no way helped ease my boredom. I had been dragged to Temple once again by my parents, under the promise that my friends would be there, who, presumably, were dragged there under the same circumstances.
I started looking over at my friend, mouthing words to him.
“Listen to the lecture. You can talk with your friends afterwards,” my father reprimanded.
I reluctantly returned my attention to the speaker, but was unable to focus on what the speaker was saying. Instead, I let my thoughts wander, and wondered why any outlandish story such as this, with talking monkeys with god-given abilities, bridges built solely from floating rocks, and a protagonist who wielded arrows more powerful than a nuclear bomb, enchanted the adults so.
“Eashaan, do you put cow eyeballs in that curry you eat every day?” The jeer itself wasn’t particularly aggravating, but it was the repetition—the repetition every single day, to the point where I was called “Curry Boy”—that made third grade and the rest of elementary school intolerable for me. Eventually, I became detached from class, undergoing those seven hours only to complete required work and nothing else, wrapping myself inside the world of books during recess.
My whole body felt as if it were on fire. Today, I had left my book in class. Today, I had decided to play a simple game of zombie tag with my classmates. Today, I had ended up laying on the cracked, grey floor of the boy’s bathroom while the other boys celebrated with the final survivor. We both reached the safe zone, the boy’s bathroom, but there could only be one victor. Thus, a short fight ensued—one in which I took the heavy blows. Hours after the fight, I, a puny child with sticks for limbs, was fantasizing winning that fight. And when we passed the Taekwondo Studio on the way home, I asked my mother if I could join. With enough practice, I reasoned, I’d be the one pummeling that kid—and anyone who had teased me—into the ground.
As I donned my brand-new uniform and white belt, I felt a surge of energy course through me. The class was difficult: I had to hold up punches and maintain long, awkward stances, my arms and legs screaming in pain. Yet I held out through the pain, knowing that soon, no one would dare mess with me. This was class after class, belt after belt, striving to finally stand up against my bullies—yet never taking action to do so. I doubted whether I could ever really take them on. As my first tournament loomed in the near future, I felt that this would be the perfect test for my readiness.
My whole body felt as if it were on fire. My previous match had ended in a horrific clash of legs, and I could already feel the welt swelling on my battered shin. However, I had won my previous match, and I now had to face off in the final match for first place. As the match began, my every movement sent blades up my leg, my teeth clenching so hard that my ears rang. Yet I endured the pain, determined to get first, to prove that I was better. I dodged and blocked, and punched and kicked, every fiber of my being yearning, screaming, for victory. If I won, not only would I triumph against my opponent but also the bullies that had tormented me for years. It was a good thing, then, that I lost.
As a white belt, I had to learn the student oath: “I will observe the tenets of Taekwondo, respect instructors and seniors, never misuse Taekwondo, be a champion of freedom and justice, and help build a more peaceful world, Sir.” Originally, I was confused by this statement. How could Taekwondo, a fighting style, be used to promote non-violence? Yet what I came to learn was that Taekwondo wasn’t about building a fighter—it was about building a person. A person who followed that oath and embodied its tenets—courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, and indomitable spirit. Through respecting my instructors I learned courtesy; through accepting defeat I learned integrity; through holding my kick an inch away from my opponent I learned self-control; and through endurance of pain I learned perseverance and indomitable spirit.
In my 10 years and 13 belts as a Martial Artist, I have not become the honed fighter I originally envisioned—there are many years of training left for that to become a reality. Instead, I became a better person, learning the importance of connecting with others—not fighting them.
My first essay (10th grade) discusses the topic of my boredom in going to temple. My second essay discusses the bullying I experienced in elementary school, and what the actions I took to overcome that. Between these two essays, there is very clear growth in my ability to write an engaging narrative story.
Firstly, my choice of topic for the first essay is ill-chosen. In writing a story about a boring time, the story itself is very boring and bland. My choice of topic creates an essay that is not very palatable, and the content matches it. A majority of the story is simply dialogue, with the first paragraph completely meaningless to anyone foreign to the Ramayana . Furthermore, much of the detail doesn’t describe the scene well: it says I’m bored, cross-legged, and have been forced to attend. And the detail of me being cross-legged is completely unnecessary in building the setting. The only detail that shows my boredom in the story is “I yawned”. Lastly, although the last paragraph attempts to create some sort of commentary about the situation, about how this repeated story is still interesting to the parents yet boring for the children, but stops short and abruptly ends. While this essay tells a story, it does so unimaginatively and without direction.
The second essay is much better in creating a story and atmosphere. Although both essays begin with quotes, the second essay actually analyzes the meaning and impact of the quote. Furthermore, the details are much more immersive. “My whole body felt as if it were on fire” shows how much pain I was in. Furthermore, by using it twice, first in my confrontation in the bathroom and later in my contention for 1st place at a regional taekwondo competition, I build a parallel between the two events and their significance to the story. And to wrap it all up, this story also has a direction: me learning the true meaning and use of Taekwondo: to build a person, not hurt another one.
Thus, by narrating a more interesting story, including an underlying meaning, and using literary techniques such as parallelism, I have grown my ability to tell a story more effectively and enticingly than before.