Graduation Speech - Original Writing Essay

Nine years ago, I never could have imagined I’d be writing this essay. I was a senior in high school, and, like the rest of my classmates, I was apprehensive about the future. Unlike my classmates, I felt like I had missed the proverbial “you need to get your life together” message. I watched my classmates apply to colleges, their majors already decided and their future careers mapped out. While I was an above average student, I felt I lacked the decisiveness my classmates seemed to have. I did not feel passionate about a career or even a field of study. I felt defective. This was compounded by the financial strain I knew attending college would have on my family. It seemed wasteful to try to “find my passion” at school while squandering

“I wonder who that was, what a weird person” he said aloud, for some reason.

“It’s not nice to stare,” a little voice said. Dominique turned towards the voice and found a child.

Day one of sixth grade, there I was excited yet nervous, very nervous. I had no idea what was instore, no one I knew previously was going to Jefferson with me. I was sitting in Mr. Bausch 's language arts class. For our first assignment we had to make a cereal box about our selves. Once we were finished we had to present in front of the class. Once my name was called I went up and stood in front of the class. My legs were shaking and my heart was pumping. I speed right through it and hurried back to my seat I was so proud of my self. Now in eighth grade, we had to present a motivation speech, I got up and confidently presented it to the class. I have changed a lot over a course of three years looking back I am absolutely amazed. I love

I walked over to where me, and Frank sat he was picking at some tape on the desk impatiently. "Hey." I sat down, he smiled, "Hey Gee!" Frank smiled, "Can 't wait for music!" He said excitedly, I chuckled. His favorite class was music, which we had after gym. I only have three classes with Frank, but I have all my classes with Ray. He can be a bitch, but he 's a bitch who 's my best friend.

Setting my suitcase and bags next to my bed, I glanced around seeing that most of the things I kept here were where I left where I ha don 't them two months ago. summer break recently ended and class was scheduled to resume on Monday. It was my last year here at Maxwell College of Arts and I could already tell that this year was going to be stressful.

Every time I go out on a stage I look at the small piece of paper in my music folder, one with hand written words that now hold so much meaning to me. I think all the way back to the first time I sang in front of an audience and of the complete and utter disaster that it was. However, I also think of how far I have come. It all started in fourth grade when my school had their annual school talent show. I had sang in the church choir with a group of around twenty other kids, but this was different. I had practiced my song multiple times over, and had asked my friend to play the piano while I sang. The day I walked into the school will never leave my memory. It was so tense you could taste the anticipation in the air. I walked in and sat in my seat where I memorized the student I would come up after. Time seemed to speed up impossibly fast, and the next moment I was being called onto the stage. The only sound I could hear was the pound of my heart, and my friend fuzzily asking in the background, “Do you want to go a cappella when I turn the pages?” I nodded agreeably because I did not want her to know I did not know what the word meant. Now I know it’s meaning is “without instrumental music” ("A Cappella."). Too soon, we were standing on the stage, and I had started to sing the song. I thought everything was going well until it came time for her to turn the page and she stopped playing. I waited patiently as she waited for me to sing. We were both waiting, and the only sound

As I grew up I constantly spelled out my brother’s name backwards, instead of CHRIS I spelled it SIRHC or I would say things such as, “noodles spaghetti”. I assumed it was standard for kids my age. A few years later, during my first few years in school, my teacher explained to my mom that there was a high possibility that I was dyslexic. Due to this, that same teacher moved me into a slower class; a class intended for intellectually disabled students. Although the students in the classroom were lovely, I was furious that I was branded as “incompetent” or “sluggish”. After a few hours of analyzing this unexpected change, I panicked and decided that I needed to construct a plan that would get me back into the “regular” classroom. As soon as I got home that day I sat at the dinner table and read book after book. I read everything from my school books to cereal labels; I was determined to be placed back into the “regular” classroom. It took a few months, but after studying hours and hours with my helpful and optimistic mother I was placed back into the “regular class”.

The morning was as clear as glass. The sun shined through my window, waking me up from my sleep. The air tasted like water, as if I was tasting the Earth. I sat up to put on my slippers and walked to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and dressed to get ready for summer school today. I recently started, so I don’t especially know my way around. At the same time, I never wanted to go to summer school, but my teacher said it is mandatory to go, or I will get held back from grade level. Now that I finished getting ready, I walked out from the bathroom to the kitchen.

The day had started out so perfectly, the sun was out, the air was warm and excitement filled the air. Students were all so ready to find their place, to join the club that would change part of what their school year would be like. Some would join the same as before, and some would be bold and try for something new. Alena stood with the other cheerleaders, having arrived early to set up their booth and begin drawing attention be sounding off with some of their new cheers.

respected that because he valued my education. I was expected to graduate in May of 2014 and we planned to get married in March of 2014 right before my graduation. Things were going well until late February I stopped hearing from him for 10 days. I was worried, he hadn’t deployed or anything, but what if he got hurt. He ended up calling me two weeks before our wedding date to say that he was not the man I should marry and that he needed time to get to get himself together. I agreed respectfully and said that we could wait. The following weekend, I was informed that he married a women he had met 5 months prior. I was put in a state of depression and tried to commit suicide. I stopped attending class during midterms which is when I found out and my life turned upside down. A few days later, I realized graduation was less than two months away and that I had to pull myself together. I did and I graduated that May with a 3.2 GPA. When I think of this experience, I think about my ego. Freud would say that my ego wants to meet my needs in a way that is sensible and takes all aspects of the situation into account before taking action. When the peak of this situation arrived, my ego needed to meet my needs of being hurt. I took everything into account, so what I did was focus heavily on my studies so that my brain was the focus and not my heart. My ego told me that my degree was more important than a heartbreak at the time so I managed to redo all my midterms and even pass my

I still remember coming home from school when I was six years old saying, “Mommy, I’m so happy that now boys and girls are equal.” We had just learned about how things used to be and I was happy we had come so far. But I remember being eight and getting in trouble for yelling at a boy in my class. It didn’t matter that he had called me stupid, all my teacher said was “Boys will be boys, but good girls don’t fight back.” And then at ten years old I remember walking around with my family, hearing words I had never heard before screamed out of cars at me, not knowing what they meant, but knowing that whatever they meant wasn’t right. I remember my mother telling me I couldn’t wear that dress anymore, because she didn’t want people

BEEEEPP… BRRR… BEEP…BRRRRRR! My room flashed in front of me, quickly then disappeared. The morning sun peeked through my translucent curtains. Shadows of dancing branches appeared on my white walls. I woke up panicked at the sound of an alarm I had forgotten to turn off the previous night. How stupid could I be, forgetting to turn off an alarm clock attached to my own chest! Saturday morning and awake at 6 A.M, really?! I forced my eyes shut, but no use. After several attempts to get both feet on the ground, I began my day doing things I don’t usually do (12 P.M is my usual routine). Hmmmm? Six hours ahead of my weekend routine, what to do? After a quick breakfast of my usual free range sunny side up eggs, I got out for an early morning jog, quite a rarity to see me out on the streets at this time. I put on my shoes, and enjoyed the rest of my morning with music.

It 's the minute details that are vital: the small things are what make big things happen. There are certain flashbacks of one’s childhood that stay forever in one’s mind. There is one day in particular that is still fresh in my mind. It was the fall of third grade, and I forgot to pray Shacharit that morning. My evident passion for Tefillah began at a young age. As the realization dawned on me, tears were suddenly streaming down my face. This had never occurred to me before, and I felt nervous. I had realized the power of Tefillah in first grade and I was motivated to pray out loud every single day even on non-school days. How could I forget to pray to G-d that morning? With lips quivering, I immediately wondered if G-d would punish me. My mother, one of my prime role models explained to me that it is okay to error and that it is never too late to pray. The one time I forgot to pray to G-d was a critical juncture for me during my childhood. As a result of this occurrence, I realized over time that mistakes do happen and that one can move forward after. That day was one of the roots of determination that emerged over the years. This one seemingly small and insignificant event impacted my life and will continue to be a precedent for further goals and choices.

Princeton was my Paris not Nolan. My parents talked to each other and asked me more questions about Nolan. They couldn 't believe that I finally had a boyfriend. "Boyfriend" and "Nolan" in the same sentence made me lose my appetite. Mom and dad told me they wanted to meet him soon.