Read the 2021 Freshman Personal Narrative Winners

Photo: Gellinger

This fall featured the English Department's first ever personal narrative competition for freshmen. Entrants told short stories about moments in their lives that revealed a lesson or deeper meaning. On February 8, the department announced three winners: Cindy Li for "Scraps and Unfinished Steaks" (Ms. Joanna Alonso’s and Mr. Joseph Pucci’s class), Sasha Smolansky for "Blinchikis & Breast Cancer" (Ms. Billie Braithwaite-Jones), and Daniel Delaney for "The Hike" (Ms. Menat Aly). You can read the winning narratives below.

“Scraps and Unfinished Steaks”

By CINDY LI

A tender piece of meat lays in front of me. A perfect medium-rare ​steak​, accompanied by creamy and rich mashed potatoes, garnished with fresh chives, and drizzled with a fresh mushroom sauce, can never go wrong.

With a dish like that, you can’t help but dig in as quickly as possible. That excitement you encounter before starting any meal is a feeling that cannot be beat: a mix of happiness, excitement, and wonder. During the coronavirus lockdown, when I had my first breakfast with both​ of my parents, that was exactly how I felt. You could say that at that moment, I was digging into my steak.

It was understandable that my parents were never able to spend time with me considering they owned their own businesses: one restaurant, three bakeries, and real estate. However, this took a big toll on our ability to bond and understand each other.

It felt like starting a meal — cutting into that juicy steak, glistening under the dim lights of the restaurant, and slathering some mashed potatoes over that piece you just cut — that’s how I knew my journey with my parents had just started.

I had never spent as much time with my parents as I have in these past seven months. I have been able to watch movies with them, eat dinner with them, talk with them, and laugh with them. The dinner table was now used for more than just playing games. I was able to do many things that wouldn’t have been possible without this pandemic. I was able to see my dad before 11 p.m. and spend the weekdays with my mom before she had to go to work during the weekend. I was finally able to create a ​bond​ with them that I knew was going to be hard to let go when this pandemic ends.

On December 14 of 2020, 2.9 million coronavirus vaccines were distributed throughout the states. Hearing that on the news really hit me. Eventually, this pandemic would end and everyone would return back to their normal lives. I would have to face seeing my parents come home late at night, exhausted, to the point where they couldn’t even hold a conversation with me, when their first thought would be to lay on the bed. I would have to face using the dinner table as something to put my laptop on, nothing more. I would have to face watching movies alone, eating dinner without them, and not being able to talk and laugh with them anymore. The only thing that kept running through my mind was, “When will I be able to do this with them again?”

Cutting pieces of that steak, and smothering each piece with mashed potatoes, was the real highlight of eating that meal. Like every meal, you eat until you’ve consumed all the components of the dish. Similarly, spending time with my parents was the real highlight of this pandemic. And like every pandemic, it will most likely come to an end, bite by bite, and yet I was not able to finish my steak. I was not able to finish the bond with my parents. I don’t know when I’ll be able to eat a dish like that again, or spend as much time with my parents again, but when the time comes, I’ll savor every piece of it.

“Blinchikis & Breast Cancer”

By SASHA SMOLANSKY

The nuisance of the sun’s rays spiked through my window into my eyes, cueing me to awaken. I glanced up from the bowl of cereal I was practically devouring, and as the cold milk seeped down my throat, I saw my grandmother glaring down at me. Her eyes were soft, hazel, and twinkling. “Good morning,” they told me as she placed a delicate kiss on my forehead. Her eyes had taken up one-third of my heart. Her words had attained the remaining two-thirds.

Her face was powdered, a shade certainly lighter than her skin. Her lips, the ones my forehead yearned to be kissed by, were painted a bright, bold red. Her hair, a ruby red I aspired to acquire. Her arms were filled with potholes from vaccines in far-off lands. Her skin, however, sagged and stretched in a compromise for a family she has been blessed to care for. Still, her body, my baba, was a work of art. She was my Sun and I, a mere planet, would forever be orbiting her and all her wonder, forever in awe.

I clutched my backpack, heavy with textbooks and stress of what today would hold, and headed out the door. I seized my keys from my left jean pocket, inserted them into the door, felt the click echo through my bones, and with that sound, I left home.

After school, I opened my apartment door, and my senses were filled with my grandmother’s trademark blinchikis, set on the table, steaming. Alongside them, a beaming computer was opened to a page on breast cancer treatment. I felt my face become cold and pale. My knees trembled. My hands perspired. As my plate hit the floor and shattered beneath my feet, I remained frozen, blankly staring at the computer screen.

Amid the silence, my phone rang.

“Hello?” I managed to answer.

“Sasha?” my mother said tearfully. “We need you to come to the hospital. I’ll explain everything to you then.”

As fast as my thoughts raced in my head, I arrived at the hospital faster. My mother explained, with her hands shaking as fast as my own and her face as pale as mine, that my grandmother indeed had breast cancer and had been sent to surgery for a double mastectomy. For what seemed like an eternity, we sat on the edges of our seats, with tears streaming rivers down our cheeks, holding each other’s hands, promising each other that it would all be alright, when in reality we didn’t know.

After three apprehensive hours, my grandmother was finally out of surgery.

Baba, I entered your room and took a seat next to your bed. I kept waiting for you to wake up. Let it be a miracle or pure science, I just need something to save you, to save me. I kept praying as I sat in this pewter room, wires tangled around us. It smelled fresh, a distinctive scent meaning to ease any stress, yet somehow it induced it. My head down and fingers intertwined, I mumbled a prayer that it would truly be alright. Still, I questioned: Why would God do this to you? Were my tears not convincing? Did my pain mean nothing to you? Were you even listening to me? Were you even there?

Minutes bled into hours, but I remained sitting next to you. Your hair, still ruby, now had a considerable amount of silver strands polishing it. Nonetheless, I aspired to acquire it. Your face — despite not being cloaked with makeup, I still yearned to see it. Your lips were now faint, but nevertheless, I languished waiting to be kissed by them. As my head bobbed and I drifted off to sleep, the miraculous occurred. Your eyes fluttered open and they looked into mine. Your eyes, your beautiful eyes, they still had a twinkle in them of a thousand stars. And mine, though broken, now stared into yours, stronger than ever.

“The Hike”

By DANIEL DELANEY

I stared up at the rusted trail sign, afraid of what was to come.

“I checked the forecast, it’s going to rain,” I exclaimed.

“Nice try,” my dad said. “I don’t know what forecast you looked at, but it's great hiking weather today.”

I thought about pretending to be sick, but I knew my fake stomach aches weren’t going to hold up. My dad was committed to this terrible hike. Maybe he didn't know how hard it was going to be.

“C’mon Dan, it’s going to be amazing!” he said.

He was determined but not knowing what was to come, like a fish chasing bait. My brother trudged along as well. My dirt-covered sneakers crunched the twigs beneath my feet as we began along the path. As the minutes passed, I began to feel a terrible sensation, a sickening restless pain. I realized the hike was the least of my problems. I had developed some anxiety. It always kicked in at the worst possible times. I immediately recognized the feeling. I tried telling my father.

“It will pass,” he said. “We're too far in to turn back.”

Time began to slow down, as if the world was coming to a stop. My feet began to feel like cinder blocks, and I grew teary as I walked along. Every step of the treacherous ascent felt like punishment. The anxiety added fuel to the fire. We soon ran into a man coming down. He saw my tears and said loud enough for all to hear, “If he’s crying now, he won’t be able to continue later on. It gets much harder.” This did nothing but diminish what fragment of confidence I had left.

The mountain became even steeper than I anticipated. I hiked up each bend, hoping the end was near, but it never came, as if the mountain was toying with me. My brother wasn't doing great either. His face was creased with sweat, and his legs wobbled like poorly made stilts.

“Not much further to go,” my dad announced. “Enjoy the beautiful view.”

I knew he had never done the hike before, so this didn't exactly fill me with confidence. Rationally, I knew the end was near, but it certainly didn't feel like it. The path was lined with a beautiful grove of saplings. I grasped at every tree to my advantage. Their strong branches assisted my ascent. My hands were sticky with sap, but I didn't really care at this point. We asked others how far it was to the top and got many different answers, some promising, some not. I turned a corner and felt a powerful gust of wind.

When we finally passed the tree line, I turned and the view was something I will never forget. I could see so many beautiful lakes. The feeling of achievement surprised me.

“I am proud of you,” my father said. “You've done what many kids your age couldn't.”

I smiled. I was grateful for my father’s praise. The peak was an uneven assortment of giant stacked boulders. A troupe of teenage girls sat nearby for a breezy lunch. The wind now enveloped my body and blew the sap off my hands. My anxiety dissipated as I traversed the grand rocks, never stopping for a break. I could see for hundreds of miles, each lake connecting to form a larger body of water, encircling the mountain like a grand moat. It was time to go, and I was surprised that I was actually sad to leave. I didn't know whether I would experience something like this again.

Everyone knows the hike down is always faster, and this time around it held true, but the hard rocky paths no longer scared me. I finished the descent and was at peace. I began to appreciate the experience and was grateful for my father who encouraged me to get through it. I didn't know it yet, but I understood that many of life’s most worthwhile things don't come easy. You have to work for them. As we entered the car, I gazed up at the mountain. I hoped to return some day, but not for a while. I’m only human.