College Essay in Retrospect

My friends, I present to you the labor of 16 drafts and hours of breakdowns. It is my college essay. After drafting essays about conducting, directing, and even about my eyebrows as a metaphor for my personality and mannerisms, I sent in this sad little conglomeration of 500 words. So, for those curious, this is how I sold myself to nine schools in one page:

Diminuendo: The once-blazing house lights cool to a reverent blue. Subito piano: the volume of an excited audience crackles and diminishes abruptly. It’s a concerto—the conductor, the soloist—disguised as a Rachmaninov symphony. My neighbor precariously teeters on the edge of her seat and eventually leans over so far that her threatening elbows encroach on my personal space, and I’m fairly certain the gentleman to my right is sweating profusely although the current room temperature is approximately sixty degrees. It could have been the Mexican food he’d consumed for his dinner. It could be Rachmaninov (after all, I am no exception to this falderal—I am in tears within minutes). But I’m fairly certain it is Kwamé Ryan that is the root of our emotional turbulence. Never, in my extensive symphony-going career, have I witnessed a man snatch an audience so quickly or with such force. He is our conductor.
Ryan sends us into a rapturous maelstrom from exposition to recapitulation. He is unconventional. He conducts sans baton. He closes his eyes, barely consults the score, and sways with the music. My heartbeat unabashedly becomes dependent on each pulse of his wrist to the three-four rhapsody. As absurd as it may seem, this clean-cut man clad in a freshly-pressed tuxedo, is one of the most radical conductors of our time, and my most prevalent intrigue.

My love affair with music began at a very young age. I danced as soon as I could walk, sang as soon as I could talk, acted and told stories as soon as I knew the meaning of a lie. Nonetheless, it was piano that ignited my obsession. Although I’d taken dance lessons since the age of three, it wasn’t until I could interpret the music that my insatiable curiosity swelled. Dance lead to choirs, choirs to musicals, musicals to plays. Yes, I consider theatre an aspect of music. People create such music each day: new rhythms by the pattern of steps on the street, the syncopated banter among friends, the fortissimo chaos of brassy traffic.

The natural course of action would be to quit piano once I began to love choir, quit choir after discovering musicals, and quit musicals after discovering plays. Needless to say, this is not my case. Sophomore year, I became the student conductor for my school, in addition to performing in the dance company, continuing piano, and performing in the musical. I am still the student conductor, but I have, since, composed a French choral piece for our choir, joined show choir, orchestra, and dance theatre, have directed a musical (The Last Five Years) and am currently assistant directing The Man Who Came to Dinner while choreographing two pieces for the dance company.

And don’t you dare think I’m about to slow down. I refuse to select one passion and eliminate all others at age eighteen. Instead, I pursue them all with a hearty amount of gusto and curiosity, and a dose of patience and persistence. My life is so heavily enriched by all of these romances that I often myself thinking in narrative—where even the most mundane tasks merit full-scale film scores and majestic sets.

The world, to me, is a symphony—lovingly and impeccably sculpted by others older and smarter than I am. But I am its conductor, its Kwamé Ryan—capable of choreographing others’ work the way I please—scherzo to quicken the heart rate, andante to appreciate the moment, fermata for the revelations and awakenings.

I’m not done yet. I’m already anticipating tomorrow, and I’m anxiously awaiting next fall: a new symphony hall, greater stakes, a larger audience.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your seats.