<p>Well, the first try got nothing... I hope it wasn't so terrible as to leave people speechless. Let's try again. I'm posting it directly on here cause it's so personalised, the idea of anyone stealing any part of it is absurd. I chose the first question on the commonapp, "Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you."</p>
<p>Im keeping a keen eye out for any possible opportunity. Someone knocks; before Miss Swope is halfway to the door Im at the chalkboard, two seconds later Im back in my seat, a silky pile of chalk dust cupped in each hand. Miss Swope returns to the equation on the board; I can do it backwards, blindfolded. She knows it. I completed every assignment in the textbook before the first quarter was over, following no rules but my own, delighting in the authors misinterpretation of textbook as puzzle book. If only he had written all my textbooks. I ignore the squeaking chalk, grinning a secret grin while I rub my palms together, as Miss Swope continues her droning explanation of each minute, unnecessary step. She turns back to the board I strike. The boy in front of me yelps as I giggle at my handiwork on the back of his navy sweater. Miss Swope says my name, instinctively, sternly. I catch Roses eye, point to the tray at the bottom of the board, and before Miss Swope has reached the phone weve covered each other in powder. I do a last little dance out the door as I follow Miss Swopes directions to the office, but I still catch the smile trying to peek out from behind her stern teacher face. This is why I havent been asked to follow any stupid algebraic steps; this is why I already have my A+. Rose doesnt follow me; Miss Swope knows she only gets up to trouble when I get her into it. Its only silliness, anyhow. Its not like theyre putting me in the back of a police cruiser again. That was much more fun than chalk dust.</p>
<pre><code>Drama, excitement was my single-minded purpose then, mischief and distraction. A few months later I would have all the drama I could ever have wanted; short of committing murder, what more drama could a sixteen-year-old girl ask for? But I never stopped to think that getting pregnant would so abruptly put an end to all my fun. Then again, I never stopped to think about anything at all. Now that was no longer an option. Suddenly there was everything to think about, suddenly life became serious. But it wasnt necessity that sobered me; more like possession. One night I went to sleep, a trouble-making, drama-seeking, completely aimless teenager. The next morning I woke up, a Mom. Its the sort of thing you read in cheesy novels, not something you think is possible in real, true life. Maybe it was just the hormones; I still get a little mischievous sometimes. Then again, its usually my nine-year-old who starts it.
If you ask him, hell tell you; he saved his moms life. Mom wouldnt even have made it through high school if it hadnt been for him. Not that the majority of the girls at Cyesis didnt drop out regardless of the fact that a high school had been built just for them, complete with attached daycares and parenting classes. And I thought my government class was trying. Isnt parenting supposed to be instinctual? While I did go back to school to complete my high school diploma, and even managed to stay out of trouble, my grades never did quite catch up to my IQ. Through elementary and middle school, I routinely scored ninety-nine percentiles in nearly all subjects on periodic achievement tests, but from kindergarten to 12th grade I achieved honor roll only twice, usually hovering around a C average. The Cs themselves, though, were nothing to the constant disappointment my parents and teachers expressed in me. But once again my son would prove to be the answer to my problems.
Dylan was a happy, lively, curious baby, who smiled and laughed and rolled over and walked far before other infants his age did, and he still has the scars to prove it. It was obvious before he had reached the age of two that in this age of learning disabilities, Dylan wouldnt last more than a few months in kindergarten before teachers affixed that now-popular new label on him; ADHD. Not that I was too old to have known a few of those ADHD kids when I was in school; one of them even convinced me that I was similarly afflicted. But my father didnt believe in psychiatric illness, and my mother had had, as she told me when I brought it up, enough of my excuses. But my five-year-old son, struggling horribly after only a few months of kindergarten, was another matter entirely. It wasnt long before Id learned enough about ADHD to teach his various doctors a thing or two, and it hadnt escaped me, in reading descriptions of little girls and the differing symptoms they exhibited of this disability, that what my mother had once called just another excuse had likely been anything but. Children often provide a better surface for self-reflection than even the finest mirror.
Today, Dylan still struggles with his unique personality and learning style, as I prefer to think of it, but he does so at an exceptional gifted school that admits only those students who have proven their intelligence through grades and IQ and academic tests. Had no one intervened when he began struggling in kindergarten he likely would have ended up at a school quite the opposite. And in his success lies my own. As I learned how to help him learn, I gained those same skills myself. Everything there is to know, we learn together, and improve together. Long ago I gave up on the idea of ever doing my intellect justice, and tossed aside any motivations to that respect for fear of failure. Now, inspired by my sons achievements, and enriched by the new self awareness I have gained because of him, I am convinced of my ability to try again where I once gave up, and this time succeed. Beyond helping me with my homework, theres no telling how my son might redeem me next.
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<p>I'm applying to New College in Sarasota.</p>