Breathe by Carolyn

Breathe by Carolyn - November 2013 Scholarship Essay

I stepped into band camp my freshman year, feeling as if iron bars were wrapped around my chest. I choked on the air and sat on the floor, not even looking at the strange faces of my peers.

We had to speak our names. I spoke without breathing, too soft for anyone to hear. Anyone except the percussionist next to me, who recognized the name – the last name – my brother's name. My brother, the head of percussion before her. What expectations would she have of me?

I was given the cymbals, but I couldn't make them crash. I was afraid to be on the wrong beat, to be too loud - to disturb the other players. With each failure to strike I would cave inwards, choking out what little air was in my lungs, laughing nervously even after no sound came, wanting to cry, wanting to disappear.

I thought I recognized another girl in the band, a flute player named Amelia. Perhaps she was the one from the Rosie's Girls summer camp I went to. But what if she wasn't? I agonized over the possibility of communication, and failed to speak.

In freshman theology, I stepped up to the podium to give a four-minute speech. My breath caught in my throat. Suffocation, hyperventilation, suffocation again. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. Two acquaintances helped me to get to the office and breathe.

At the first pep rally, I rigidly counted breaths, reminding myself I had to go, do it, all or nothing. The whole student body raised their fists to punch the air on the last three beats of the Alma Mater – CRASH, CRASH, CRASH. I did it. I did it perfectly. I let the air out of my chest and felt muscles relax.

At the first football game, I stepped out onto the field, feeling the power of the stadium lights and the eyes of the crowd. I played. I breathed.
At another game – the game against our rival school - I played for live TV. Breathe in, breathe out.

One day of band practice I came out late to the field, running, crashing my cymbals loud enough to be heard from so many yards away, confident that I was on the right beat. I smiled, sucking sweet air into my lungs as I rushed to my place in the formation.

My friend and I started an Anime & Manga Club. I was president, even though I had no idea what I was doing. My lungs tightened and hardly functioned at the start. But I figured it out – I slowly came to relax – to socialize.

Sophomore year I stepped onto the theatrical stage, as a nameless lady. I stood under the bright lights, felt the energy of the audience, and reacted, danced, became a part of a show. I felt, after each scene, that I was vibrating, shaking with fear, with short breath, with excitement.

In marching band, I was becoming increasingly frustrated with fitting all of my long hair into my hat. I eventually devised a bun, just behind my hairline, like a bird's nest. Nevermind the strange looks of the other band. I can deal. I can breathe, and that's all I need to do.

I obtained a gold, wire bird, and enthroned it in my nest for homecoming. As I stepped into the dance, I was surrounded by strangers, with their strange looks, and I felt as if I would die, suffocate, right there. Then I saw my band friends, who understood the joke. We laughed. We danced. I breathed.

I stepped up to the podium in English class, prepared to give a 10-minute presentation. I spoke longer than necessary. I let the words and the air flow through me like nothing.

I started a writer's club, and lead each meeting. I started an Open Mic Night. I started a Literary Magazine. I made things happen. People began to nominate and vote me into positions.

I raised my hand in class. I spoke, shaking at first, then with more strength. I joined the debate club at my school. I shared my views and opinions, often rambling, but speaking, breathing – eating pizza and searching for truth.

I took a speaking role in my Theater III class play – the role of a woman with multiple personalities. I had an argument with myself, became a monkey, screamed, shoved a banana in my mouth, and ran offstage. I felt like I could fly.

Senior Year, I auditioned for the fall play, and got the exact role I wanted, while maintaining my previous roles on the paint crew and as chief of props. I shouted in a French accent on stage, perfectly relaxed, easily breathing.

I was the only percussionist in marching band, and the percussionists of other bands complimented me – how loud I was, how fast I could play, and how many instruments I played. I lead the band onto the field. I was the heartbeat of the music and the rhythm of our footsteps.

The most valuable thing high school has taught me is this: Do what you gotta do, live how you wanna live, speak when you've got something to say, and keep breathing, keep moving, keep dancing on. Life's too short to waste time on anxiety.