College Essay Feedback?

[sarahology]

<p>I'm applying ED to Smith College as a legacy. I would love love love any feedback :) Thanks so much!</p>

<p>Acceptance</p>

<p>This stage can’t wait for me to fail. The spotlight glares at me, narrows its eyes. The precarious floorboards whisper. I shuffle towards the apron, a jagged precipice. This is my first time on a professional stage, and I’m about to spill my guts to an audience of one thousand shadows. I shake. I’ve never been so intimidated by a theater. I reassure myself that there is no need to mentally scroll through the script to remember my lines, as I have done before, playing other characters. Tonight, the character is myself. It sounds easy, but this monologue will reveal what was, until recently, my secret. I breathe, and begin:
“When I was a baby, I had a pink onesie that said: I Heart My Two Mommies...”
The first line is the hardest. After that, the words come with such urgency that I have to remind myself to control my emotions, but it’s impossible. To do this right, I have to remember.</p>

<p>I remember learning the word “dyke” because someone spray-painted it on my mother’s car. I remember meeting friends whose parents wouldn’t let them play with me. I remember switching daycares because the administrators were “uncomfortable.” I remember being called a lesbian in middle school, like it was a hereditary disease. I remember learning to lie, creating a fake family tree for a Spanish project, one that reflected my idea of normal, one with a father who wasn’t an anonymous donor. I remember the shame.
In the winter of my junior year my drama teacher challenged us to write about our unique experiences as Americans. I forced some paragraphs about my vaguely Irish roots. But when we compared our monologues, I realized that my friends had written honestly about poverty and immigration and families as unusual as mine. I began again, and this time I wrote the truth.
As taunts hurled at me in kindergarten echoed back to me, I saw the raised eyebrows of my third grade teacher at parent conference night. I felt the cool metal of the jungle gym I clutched at nine years old, when the twelve-year-olds in miniskirts turned our playground into an interrogation room and asked me - over and over again - if my mom was gay. Their forgotten faces, now remembered, spilled down to the keyboard and became part of my story. I injected the memories with my coping mechanism - humor. I joked about lesbian culture, from gay-pride parades to Rosie O’Donnell, but I left the remnants of pain beneath the laughs. It was raw, but at least it was honest.
When my director chose my monologue to be part of AmericanLand (our self-scripted play about the dark side of the American Dream) it was an opportunity to force the people I knew to confront their homophobia. I hesitated, realizing this meant performing the monologue first for my classmates, then for the school, and then for the judges at Dramafest -- strangers. But then I thought of an Anna Quindlen column in which she describes “the power of one” person in combating homophobia. When someone is honest about their sexuality, or the sexuality of loved ones, their community is “forced...to compare their prejudices with what they know of this one individual.” I decided to change peoples’ minds with my story, to be myself without shame.<br>
I shared family anecdotes with my classmates, and confessed the truth about my moms when I made friends. Before I wrote my monologue, I would cringe when other students used “gay” as a synonym for stupid and “fag” as a substitute for idiot, but my shame always overpowered my guilt. Once the whole school knew I had gay moms, I challenged prejudice. For the first time, I owned my identity. I had never felt so good about myself, my actual self, complete with a less than picket-fence-perfect family, but normal nonetheless.</p>

<p>“I was raised by lesbians.”
There it is, the last line, my secret. The applause of a thousand people envelops me. I am convinced it is the sound of acceptance.</p>

[thatscool1023]

<p>This is a wonderful essay! I just think this line, “I reassure myself that there is no need to mentally scroll through the script to remember my lines, as I have done before, playing other characters.” needs some revisions because it’s kind of jumbled up, in my opinion. Overall though, it was a great essay.</p>

[sarahology]

<p>Thank you so much!</p>

[beolein]

<p>Excellent.</p>

<p>Corrections:</p>

<p>The spotlight glares at me, narrowing its eyes.</p>

<p>I shuffle toward the apron, a jagged precipice.</p>

<p>I’ve never been so intimidated by the theater. </p>

<p>I remember switching day care centers because the administrators were “uncomfortable.”</p>

<p>As taunts hurled at me in kindergarten echoed back, I saw the raised eyebrows of my third grade teacher at parent conference night. </p>

<p>I felt the cool metal of the jungle gym I clutched at nine years old, when the twelve-year-olds in miniskirts turned our playground into an interrogation room and asked me – over and over again – if my mom was gay. </p>

<p>Their forgotten faces, now remembered, spilled down to the keyboard and became part of my story. I injected the memories with my coping mechanism – humor. </p>

<p>When my director chose my monologue to be part of AmericanLand (our self-scripted play about the dark side of the American dream) it was an opportunity to force the people I knew to confront their homophobia. </p>

<p>I hesitated, realizing this meant performing the monologue first for my classmates, then for the school, and then for the judges at Dramafest: strangers. </p>

<p>But then I thought of an Anna Quindlen column in which she describes “… the power of one …” person in combating homophobia. </p>

<p>Quindlen write that when someone is honest about their sexuality, or the sexuality of loved ones, their community is “… forced … to compare their prejudices with what they know of this one individual.” </p>

<p>Before I wrote my monologue, I would cringe when other students used “gay” as a synonym for stupid and “■■■” as a substitute for idiot. But my shame always overpowered my guilt. </p>

<p>Once the whole school knew I had gay moms, I challenged prejudice. For the first time, I owned my identity. I had never felt so good about myself, my actual self, complete with a less than picket-fence-perfect family, but normal nonetheless.</p>

[sarahology]

<p>Great! Thank you so much for the feedback.</p>

[born2dance94]

<p>Really great. It seems someone already posted suggested for small grammatical stuff, so I’ll just say two things.</p>

<p>1) As for spacing, it is a bit cramped. Perhaps try something like this instead:

This stage can’t wait for me to fail. The spotlight glares at me, narrows its eyes. The precarious floorboards whisper. I shuffle towards the apron, a jagged precipice. This is my first time on a professional stage, and I’m about to spill my guts to an audience of one thousand shadows. </p>

<p>I shake. I’ve never been so intimidated by a theater. I reassure myself that there is no need to mentally scroll through the script to remember my lines, as I have done before, playing other characters. Tonight, the character is myself. It sounds easy, but this monologue will reveal what was, until recently, my secret. I breathe, and begin:
“When I was a baby, I had a pink onesie that said: I Heart My Two Mommies…”</p>

<p>The first line is the hardest. After that, the words come with such urgency that I have to remind myself to control my emotions, but it’s impossible. To do this right, I have to remember.</p>

<p>I remember learning the word “dyke” because someone spray-painted it on my mother’s car. I remember meeting friends whose parents wouldn’t let them play with me. I remember switching daycares because the administrators were “uncomfortable.” I remember being called a lesbian in middle school, like it was a hereditary disease. I remember learning to lie, creating a fake family tree for a Spanish project, one that reflected my idea of normal, one with a father who wasn’t an anonymous donor. I remember the shame.</p>

<p>In the winter of my junior year my drama teacher challenged us to write about our unique experiences as Americans. I forced some paragraphs about my vaguely Irish roots. But when we compared our monologues, I realized that my friends had written honestly about poverty and immigration and families as unusual as mine. I began again, and this time I wrote the truth.</p>

<p>As taunts hurled at me in kindergarten echoed back to me, I saw the raised eyebrows of my third grade teacher at parent conference night. I felt the cool metal of the jungle gym I clutched at nine years old, when the twelve-year-olds in miniskirts turned our playground into an interrogation room and asked me - over and over again - if my mom was gay. </p>

<p>Their forgotten faces, now remembered, spilled down to the keyboard and became part of my story. I injected the memories with my coping mechanism - humor. I joked about lesbian culture, from gay-pride parades to Rosie O’Donnell, but I left the remnants of pain beneath the laughs. It was raw, but at least it was honest.</p>

<p>When my director chose my monologue to be part of AmericanLand (our self-scripted play about the dark side of the American Dream) it was an opportunity to force the people I knew to confront their homophobia. I hesitated, realizing this meant performing the monologue first for my classmates, then for the school, and then for the judges at Dramafest – strangers. But then I thought of an Anna Quindlen column in which she describes “the power of one” person in combating homophobia. When someone is honest about their sexuality, or the sexuality of loved ones, their community is “forced…to compare their prejudices with what they know of this one individual.” I decided to change peoples’ minds with my story, to be myself without shame. </p>

<p>I shared family anecdotes with my classmates, and confessed the truth about my moms when I made friends. Before I wrote my monologue, I would cringe when other students used “gay” as a synonym for stupid and “■■■” as a substitute for idiot, but my shame always overpowered my guilt. Once the whole school knew I had gay moms, I challenged prejudice. For the first time, I owned my identity. I had never felt so good about myself, my actual self, complete with a less than picket-fence-perfect family, but normal nonetheless.

</p>

<p>Remember, that’s just my suggestions for spacing. I think it flows a bit better if you space the paragraphs that way, but it’s your decision.</p>

<p>Also, I don’t think you need the last few lines. Ending it how I showed above feels somehow stronger to me. It’s less explicit/obvious yet packs the same punch. It’s more of a “show, don’t tell” situation.</p>

[sarahology]

<p>I love my last few lines, I need them to bring back the story to the present and complete the framing of the flashbacks Can’t compromise on that one, but your spacing suggestions were really helpful! Thank you !!</p>

[djz750]

<p>You have some dangling modifiers. Go through it with an English teacher. Dangling modifiers are annoying.</p>