<p>What do people think of writing about having coped successfully with ADHD as an essay topic? The student has a 3.9 unweighted gpa, school awards, several 5s on APs and 2400 on SAT and 800s on 3 subject tests. Some people say that colleges will worry about ADHD no matter what and should be avoided in an essay - would that seem to you all to be the same in this case?</p>
<p>I think if your voice comes out in the essay and you “show, not tell” how it has affected you that would be a quality topic. Read mine
Hey, will you read my essay? Could you also give comments, advice, corrections, advice on how to cut out words(598)? Thanks
My right arm shot upward eagerly. My left arm crossed over my Torso and braced my right arm just above the elbow. This position was typical for the excited second grade student. The teacher frequently looked upon thirty such eager beavers every time she asked a question. In that sense I was normal. I, like everyone else, cherished the opportunity to prove my intelligence by answering one of the teacher’s many questions.
And luckily (well, I thought I was lucky in that instance), this was my time, my moment, my chance to shine. Mrs. Grove blurted out my name.
“Steven.”
My palms had no reason to be covered in sweat. My hands did not need to be clenched. I did not need to clear my throat. I was poised. I knew the answer. There was, at that moment, nothing to be concerned about. I calmly lowered my arms and smugly answered, expecting unconditional praise
“Wed.”
If the question were “what is the abbreviation for Wednesday?” my class’ response would have been applause (or at least hushed admiration). However, on the contrary, the question that my teacher posed was “What is the color of a fire truck?” The class’ response, consequently, was a score of snickers (just loud enough to scoff at me, but not loud enough to be scolded by my teacher for such a reaction).
Although Mrs. Grove understood what I intended to say and responded accordingly by saying “Well done! Fire trucks are red.” I did not feel the satisfaction I normally felt when I answered a question correctly. My embarrassment in being the only person in my class who could not pronounce his R’s was winning the heavyweight boxing match with my pleasure in having proven my intelligence.
My cheeks remained flushed until the bell rang for recess. As I walked out of my classroom and onto the playfield my head throbbed. I was giving myself a headache from over- thinking. I couldn’t help but wonder what the other kids were saying about me. My pronunciation problem however, was not going to keep me from partaking in my typical recess activity: soccer.
There was already a game going. I jogged onto the dusty field without hesitation. I was passed the ball almost immediately. Franticly looking around for an open teammate, I heard someone’s voice out of my right ear. It was Jose’s.
Jose was new to the school. He could not speak any English and had no friends.
“Aqui. Aqui” he would shout.
I did not know what “aqui” meant but I passed him the ball and smiled as I did so.
Also on our team was Josh. His parents had just gotten a divorce. He could be seen crying about it in class every day. Josh was yelling “Here. Pass me the ball.”
Jose did so and Josh confidently turned with the ball, shot, and scored. We all came together and exchanged high-fives, smiling, laughing.
Then suddenly, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I had forgotten my embarrassing moment in class. I had been shouting “Th-woo ball. Pass it th-woo” the entire game, not caring about what others might say or think. No one, not me, not Jose, not Josh cared about our other problems.
This is what I love most about soccer: the carelessness, the freedom of expression. When I step onto the pitch, nothing else matters but having fun. As a soccer coach, I preach the same ideals that I learned on the playground. I tell my kids “Forget your worries. Forget your cares. Go out and express yourselves freely.”</p>