Failing Entrance Exam Essay

"I am sorry Mrs. Cooper; your son failed his entrance exam." These were the words of the preschool director to my mom, and the beginning of my literacy doom. Entrance exam? I couldn't even say the word, yet I had failed. And so were my next fifteen years or so, until this one day. The day of my reckoning. The day of my deliverance and revival. It might sound spiritual, but that is how soul fulfilling it felt to finally land on something I could proudly call my strong suit. I was the first runners-up for the blog writing on our school entertainment segment. The entertainment part was not new. I was born funny. Mom says I came out hand first, and the doctor had to pop her pelvis up to have my head finally out. Not so amusing, as tragic, but the indifference was already pronounced there. I had participated in many writing competitions, spelling bees, puzzles and many other educational forums, but winning was never part of the outcome. The comments associated to my term papers were, "your grammar is wanting", "relevant but not creative", and the more these comments focused a spotlight on my failure, the more I concentrated on those tiny lighted spots rather than the vast unspotted region also known as my strong suit.

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In fifth grade, I could hardly solve the mathematical word problems due to my weakness in reading, and I could end up writing up an enormous five at the answer section, just like my big brother Tommy advised whenever I did not know an answer. I studied using models and sometimes plasticine to construct letters and the simple sentences that could at least enable me to communicate a thought or two through written words. This might sound hard to me, but it was even harder to mum, and she did all she could, including hiring a private tutor and booking a library session every weekend for me to visit the junior section and spell out or pronounce even two words right. It was tiresome, and to a little child, not interested in books whatsoever, it was torture. But I loved art and movies, and even though I could write an inverted /d/, I was perfect at drawing the animated characters I had previously watched, and there is also this one time I drew an entirely new character, I named him Testy. The classroom agony progressed with my regressive grades.

With such a creative mind, all I needed was a language to speak it out to the world, and I would be a certified star. And the day for this transformation was here. On one of the boring visits to the library, I stumbled upon a creatively Cali graphed and characterized novel, one that strike my eyes with a heavenly illumination. It was on the third shelf, and I struggled on my toes and stretched my hands as further as I could to push it with the tip of my fingers at least and bring it down with me. Luckily, mom was there to give me an upper hand like she always did. I love my mom so much. The Great Tree of Avalon: Child of the Dark Prophecy was its title, written by Baron. This was a piece of art, creatively streamlined and furnished with literal devices and actively constructed paragraphs and sentences. Literacy and art, all in this small volume of pages, it was perfect. For once, I checked a book out of the library, and quite ironically, that was the time I realized the librarian was a woman I knew.

From page to the other, paragraph to paragraph and scene to scene, I was taken by the characterization of this book and this new world, the most convenient of them all, created by the author. I drowned myself in this book every evening, every free time, and after reading, I had to switch back to reality. My essays could now attract comments like proper use of literal devices, or amazingly creative. Well, hello world, meet your newest fantastic writer! I joined a junior book club, and I nailed all the discussions with my creativity, and I quote the leader "out of this world perspective." I started blog writing, and all my segments appeared in the weekly draws for the best pieces of creative writing. This book was just the right amount of magic I needed to rise from my grammar and general literacy ashes, to the excellent writer and committed reader I had become.

I won several school writing competitions. Life was becoming so smooth; it was like I was finally living my dream. The ambition was so high up the sky, that one evening, I started writing an animated trilogy book, and of course, with the animated characters, I had for long been creating. It looked so easy, but when I picked a pen and paper, it was so tough to arrange the ideas and flow while still maintaining a reasonable creative level. This failed, but I had now known I could write my book. I just needed to surround myself with the right group of peers and the right amount of literal influence. I was now digging deeper into my area of expertise and looked for more appealing ways to present my views and ideas to my audience and pick the right spot to display my art. My room was decorated with awards, prizes, and titles, and I took one night every three months to rearrange them, and shower myself in the glory of the victories.

Conclusion

Now it was time to give back to the society, and the only community I knew growing up was my mom. The woman who stood by me through the darkest of days. When the doctors postulated that I might have been dyslexic, she was there, when I was in the library pretending to study, and it was time she sat with the rest of the parents and feel special for having me as her child. This last segment I wrote for the end of semester writing forum was about this incredible woman; I would give anything so to always to have her by my side. I gave it the title, the art of mommy-hood. All the words around the world couldn't precisely bring out how much she meant to me, and the happy and sappy moment was the one part of art I had never experienced. The trophy was the mother of all prizes, symbolic to my piece of art, and for once in my entire life, I was the one at the podium giving an account of how I came out to be this successful. All I could say is, it was brutal but worth it.