Individuality by Natasha

Individuality by Natasha - July 2016 Scholarship Essay

I could have played the perfect lead, with a voice that both stirs and freezes an audience in their seats. For the adventurous, I could’ve been an Aragorn-in-training. To those who seek justice, I could have been an Atticus Finch in disguise. But, of course, with a wit like mine, I’d probably end up as a Cyrano de Bergerac or maybe a young Mercutio. But then again, who was to play the background, the extra? No one in theatre has any intention to be that, but when one stutters, or merely slips a word upon a beautiful audition, the path of background characters is their destiny.
As a child who stuttered, I had already ventured deep upon the path. I had faced great difficulty since birth, from a particular difficult birth, to my crossed eyes, and my stutter. Children would often move as far as they could from me, unless they had wished to tease me in front of their peers. I was a victim to their remarks, but more importantly, a victim to my own self deprecation. My stutter, that had once seemed cute, turned ugly, and my weight suddenly twice than what it truly was. In the most vulnerable of times, Middle School, I had believed everything I was called in my earlier years.
In an effort to alleviate these thoughts, I pursued acting. With ambition, and a large ego now that I think of it, I tried earnestly to become a lead. And yet, I had forgotten the cardinal rule about acting- the stage consisted far more than just myself. That lesson had hit me when, consistently, I never made a play. From time to time, I would be cast into an extra role, but never a lead.
Yet, the meaning to this was no mystery. The speech therapists from long ago had even warned me before, but I refused to listen. Nervousness develops a stutter, that's all it was to it and I couldn't help it. Defeated, I remember distinctly crying to one of my teachers in Sophomore Algebra.
This teacher, one that you only have once in a life time, was Ms. House. She had been my health teacher previously, but upon having her as a Math teacher, there was something particularly interesting about this woman. She was full of life, optimism seemingly dancing in her eyes without hesitation. She could easily light up a room of dull children like myself. Everything I had once hated about myself soon vanished upon being in her class. She had learned everyone's name upon the first day, discretely introducing herself to each of us, and always opened class up with the journal question of "How are you doing today?"
We would all answer this question quite quickly, writing a regular answer that she'd reply to as soon as the day was over. Except, after not making yet another play, I couldn't bare to lie about my thoughts. In the midst of class, I began to cry. It had been tears I was holding back for quite sometime, tears that I would only show to my parents. Yet, in that moment, a hand reached out to me. It was Ms. House.
Her words were quite quick, yet full of love and pure honesty. As I told her about my issue, she knelt next to me in concern. After I had told her, she smiled softly. It had been the single thing I needed to see that day. Then, she proceeded to tell me about my incredible abilities and everything that made me so unique. To hear that was far more than a blessing, it was a candle-light to stir me to strive further.
So, I did.
Following my continual failure in acting, I was cast as a lead twice since. My stuttering was soon silenced by the love for myself. Before, I had never loved myself, or accepted anyone's love for that matter. Yet, it was Ms. House that instilled that burning desire to love and be loved, to inspire and be inspired.
I only wish I could have done the same for her.
After my Sophomore year of school had ended, I received a phone call from my brother. His words were just as a short as her life was. Ms. House had died from respiratory failure, only being 50 years old.
The news was unbearable for not only myself, but the countless lives she had touched. A few days upon her death, a candle-light vigil took place in her honor. Candles, thousands of them, lit in her honor. Candles lit for the flaming burst of love she had for each and everyone of us.