College Essay

Well, with all that effort, it seems a shame not to use it, and also not to stick it anywhere else. 

When I started piano lessons at five years old, I spent more time underneath the piano than actually playing it, hiding from the bore of repetitive practice. As the years went by and I learned to play, however, I grew to love the piano and the music I made. Now I don’t escape beneath the ivories; music is my escape. When I play, I close my eyes and lose myself in the notes. The melodies push away the daily stresses of life, painting scenes of peace and tranquility instead. I’ve long known the happiness that music brings to me, but it took one rather unusual recital last year for me to fully understand why I love to perform.

It was at Life’s Garden, a retirement community in Sunnyvale. My piano teacher held recitals at retirement homes year round, and Life’s Garden was a place we frequented. While younger students started to play one after another, the residents filed into the room, some on walkers, some with canes, all going slowly and quietly to find seats.

At last, it was my turn to play. That day, I performed Mozart’s “Fantasia in D minor”. The music reminded me of a ballet and my fingers turned into dancing ballerinas. I enjoyed the sounds, imagined the dancers striking perfect poses, finishing the piece with a flourish.

With that, the recital ended and everyone moved towards the back of the dining hall for refreshments. Yet amidst praises and greetings floated a twinkling melody from the piano once more. I turned around and was surprised to see a lady who must have been at least 70 years old sitting at the piano. Her playing, a bit rusty at the beginning, progressively became more fluent and emotional. Captivated by her music, I wondered what had compelled her to play. She had looked, after all, frail and not extremely enthusiastic when she came in, just like most of the other senior residents in the audience. Then it struck me. Of course! It must have been our music! While the sound of her last notes still resonated in the air, I watched as she turned and stood up from the bench. Her beaming expression made me smile, too. I was proud that I had helped make her spirits a little higher, her day a little brighter.

            I have performed at more retirement home recitals since then. On the surface they look the same as before: sometimes people in the audience doze off and snore loudly, or shout into each other’s ears, trying to have a conversation over the sound of the piano. Yet in my heart I know they are listening. I play with stronger conviction and satisfaction; the music that is my life permeates theirs as well.

Le Train

Chaque jour, je prends le train au bureau. Chaque jour, la navette est la même. Je marche sur un trottoir gris et passe des maisons et des bâtiments gris sous un ciel gris. Je vois les mêmes gens, mais je ne connais aucun. Nous avons nos propres vies occupées ; pas de moment à perdre à dit bonjour.

Je composte mon billet. Le son de la machine se confond avec tous les autres bruits dans la station. Je n’attends pas sur le quai ; après avoir le prenant chaque jour pendant cinq ans, je sais comment arriver exactement à l’heure. Comme le mouvement d’une horloge, je monte le train et trouve ma place. Les autres gens font la même.

J’attends que le train roule. D’abord, je pense que tout est comme toujours, maussade et monotone. Mais quelque chose est différent. Je ne peux pas dire quoi ; mais une vue, un bruit, un sens…

C’est un enfant.

Il ne peut pas avoir plus de cinq ans. Ses yeux bruns brillent avec enthousiasme. Il porte un manteau jaune et bleu, et une petite casquette. Il est avec sa mère, une jeune femme qui apporte un sac à dos. Probablement l’un de son enfant.

Le petit garçon dit à sa mère tout ce qu’il voit.

« Regarde, maman ! Cet homme-ci tient un livre mais il dort ! » il dit, en le montrant du doigt.

« Cette femme a un chemise avec beaucoup de fleurs. »

« Maman ! Et l’autre, il parle à quelqu’un avec un téléphone portable. Je ne pense pas qu’il est heureux. » L’homme avec le téléphone jette un cout d’œil au garçon, moitié conscients de lui.

« Ce train est tellement excitant ! Est-ce que vous pensez que l’école va  être si amusant, maman ? »

Ah, donc il est son premier jour d’école, je pense. Je regarde mon montre. Oui, il est le premier septembre. J’ai oublié.

Mais en écoutant ce petit garçon, j’ai réalisé quelque chose.

Les couleurs, ils ne sont tout gris. En fait, il n’y a pas de gris dans ce train. Jaune, rouge, violet, vert… Si j’écoute, les bruits, deviennent les conversations. Je regarde par la fenêtre ; je n’ai jamais vu la beauté de la campagne que je passe toujours. Je ne dois pas continuer avec ma vie sans couleur. Je ne dois pas faire la même chose jour après jour, année après année.

Je descends du train un arrête tôt. Je veux changer ma vie, et je veux commencer maintenant.

Alternative Ending

From Kindred by Octavia Butler

1

… The black man hit him one more solid blow, and Rufus collapsed. There was no question of his getting up this time. He was out cold.

As I approached, the black man reached down and caught Rufus by the hair as though to hit him again. I stepped up to the man quickly. “What will they do to you if you kill him?” I said.

The man twisted around to glare at me.

“This good for nothing trash has done enough to deserve to die a hundred times over,” he growled. He punched Rufus in the head once more for good measure, then let him drop. The girl winced as she watched Rufus bounce slightly as he hit.

“Let’s go, Alice,” the black man said, taking the girl’s hand.

“Please, Dana,” said Alice quietly to me. And with that, the two of them disappeared into the woods.

I stared after them for a moment, confused. How had she known my name?

Of course. Alice, the young, thin girl I had seen at my last trip here. I hoped the best for the two of them, then looked back down at the unconscious body beside me.

I knelt down beside Rufus and rolled him over onto his back. His nose was bleeding. His split lip was bleeding. His face was a lumpy mess, and a red splotch was steadily growing on the side of his shirt. He makes a strained kind of noise, like he wants to say something, but ends up coughing instead. Despite all that Rufus has probably done since the last time I saw him, I don’t want him to die. If only for the reason that I don’t know what would happen to me if he did. There’s a stream nearby; perhaps I could try to get him conscious again, or wash some of his wounds before looking for help. When I come back, the red splotch has grown to cover nearly half his shirt, and he looks a few shades paler than the last time I saw him. That red spot worries me, though I’m also very uncertain that I want to see how badly he is hurt underneath.

Suddenly, I feel very dizzy again. Am I going home again already? But Rufus is still half dead…

I had knelt to the ground and held my head in my hands to try to stop the dizziness. Now I wasn’t dizzy anymore, but something didn’t feel right. I opened my eyes and looked down at the ground – but it wasn’t ground anymore. I was curled up on hardwood flooring.

“Dana? Are you okay?” A voice asks. Kevin? Rufus? It doesn’t sound like either of them. I look up and see a sandy-haired man in glasses looking down at me in concern. I squint at him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in my life.

“Who are you?” I ask uncertainly. “Where am I...?”

The man helps me up guides me to a chair. It’s soft and modern-feeling. Am I back to 1976, then? I seem to be in some kind of office. Books are everywhere, filling the shelves along the wall and piled up on the desk. A wastebasket overflows with crumpled papers.

The man studies me. I meet his eyes when I’m finished looking around the room. They’re light blue, and I am faintly reminded of a coffee shop, but I don’t know why. He looks nearly as confused as I am.

“You really don’t know where you are or who I am, do you?” He asks. I shake my head no.

“Do you know who you are?”

“I’m Dana,” I reply.

“That’s right,” he says, sounding a little relieved. “And I’m Bryan. Your husband?” He says this last part questioningly, hopefully. Husband? Where’s Kevin? Well. First things first.

“What year is this? Where am I?” I ask. The man who says he is my husband tells me it’s 1976 and that I’m in my house, our house, in New York. A thought suddenly crosses my mind. But no. It can’t be.

I look at Bryan, stare at him hard. If this is my life, shouldn’t I have memories of it?

“What… what happened?” I ask. Perhaps if I figure out what happened on his side, I can figure out what happened to me.

Bryan wrinkles his brow. Something tells me I’ve seen this expression before, even though I am certain it’s not something Kevin ever had. “Well, we were sitting in this room, talking,” he begins. “Then you said you felt dizzy, and I told you to go lay down for a bit. But then all of a sudden, you disappeared – and then, a few seconds later, you appeared again. Kneeling, as you were just now.”

A feeling of terror washes over me. I had left Rufus while he was still hurt, still half dead.

What if it had been worse than that?

To be continued...