Read the 2022 Freshman Personal Narrative Winners

Photo: Gellinger

This fall featured the English Department's second annual personal narrative competition for freshmen. Entrants told short stories about moments in their lives that revealed a lesson or deeper meaning. In February, the department announced three winners: Jocelyn Yee for "Three Bowls of Rice" (Ms. Rodriguez and Ms. Bernstein’s class), Subhah Hoque for “Growth” (Ms. Talavera’s class), and Briana Calin for “My Life’s Library” (Ms. Babis’s class). You can read the winning narratives below.

“Three Bowls of Rice”

By JOCELYN YEE

Dinner had never looked so unappealing to me. Resting atop our table sat two different dishes: bowls of hot, steaming rice, usually served with almost every meal, and an open container full of fresh meat and veggies. Although there was an abundance of food waiting for me to dig in, something was missing. There were only three instead of the usual four bowls of rice and one less pair of chopsticks. Following the direction of the steam, my eyes flicked up to confirm that everyone was present at the dinner table. Everyone but my mother.

In third grade, after my mother had been admitted to the hospital, I made sure to visit her at least once a week. The sight of medical workers rushing into hospital rooms, the bitter aroma of alcohol swimming through the air, and the faint, but noticeable, scent of body odor lurking through the hallways quickly became familiar to me. Even if her current bedroom lacked the rough, orange walls and the dark, wooden floors of the one I’d been accustomed to for the past nine years of my life, I still considered it a second home. Knowing that my mom was still there, that I was sitting right beside her, that she was still able to eat, breathe, and talk to me was reassuring.

As time went by, my mom was noticeably getting sicker and sicker. I knew something was wrong when piles of her clothing and valuables were suddenly being returned to our house, when phone calls along with texts about my day came to an abrupt stop, and when my dad’s response to the question “Can we visit mom this weekend?” had transformed from a quick, “Of course we can,” to a hesitant, “She won’t be coming home anymore.” I’d tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach by repeating to myself, “I don’t have to worry about anything; she’ll be okay in a few months,” as if it were a mantra that had been engraved into my mind, though I knew deep down that there was nothing I could do about it.

A few weeks after my mother’s funeral came multiple stages of denial, as well as hundreds, if not thousands, of awkward dinners for me to get used to the absence of my mother’s voice. I began bargaining with the little voice in my head that gradually became louder and more obnoxious, asking me questions that I couldn’t even answer myself. Why did she have to be taken away so soon? Would my life be better if my mom was still here? Conversations about my mother were frequent and unavoidable, and I absolutely despised the uncomfortable silence that occurred after telling someone about her passing.

It wasn’t until about five years later when I realized that the only thing I was afraid of was change. I didn’t let myself believe that it was okay to feel upset sometimes, that it was okay to open up to people, that it was okay to ask for support, all because I was overwhelmed by the amount of change that I was being bombarded with at such an early age. As I looked down at the three bowls of rice resting atop my dinner table, I dug in, knowing that the changes I may face in the future will only make me stronger, and that makes all the difference.

“Growth”

By SUBHAH HOQUE

The picture of baby me sat in my hands, still glossy but with age nibbling at the edges. I’m young, small enough to be carried. In the photo, my neon green tank top and citrus skirt should be an atrocious combination. Instead, it’s endearing on my chubby body.

But what I was focused on was my hair. Little five year old me hadn’t ever interacted with any sort of haircare beyond drugstore shampoo. Nonetheless, dark curls framed my chubby face. Born with a full head of hair, relatives had praised me for the locks on my head. Baby me thought nothing of her unruly mane, only mildly annoyed when it got in her face. But for the girl staring at the picture, it was the complete opposite.

I felt anything but indifferent staring at those shiny curls. There was so much swimming in my chest while I looked at that picture. There was want, and love for that hair type, entwined with envy somehow. Sadness and resignation and longing — a maelstrom of emotions, all for the shape of keratin that little me had.

But such things aren’t meant to be spoken, especially for something so trivial. So I set the picture down, mimicked a smile, and moved on to the next photo.

My hair has since straightened and thinned. Wavy but not quite, straight but with a frustrating crinkle. Poofy when brushed, messy when not. The verdict for my hair: curly, but not really.

Feeling such strong emotions over hair of all things could be considered ridiculous, especially when you’re feeling jealous of a five year old. But with my mother’s curly hair being one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, and my brother’s hair growing into it’s now signature corkscrew shape, that desire in my chest expanded into yearning. I wanted that hair, too. I wanted dark curls framing my face, wanted to match with my mother and share products with my brother. I wanted to look like the Desi maidens in the stories I read, to share the family trait of rowdy curls. I wanted to be that girl in the picture again.

Apparently it wasn’t meant for me, though. So why not slap on dye, slather a little bleach. Why not braid damp hair every day to eliminate the frizz and suppress the uneven wave that stubbornly held. Watching once-scarlet hair fade into the color of autumn leaves became upsetting, too, so I cut it off. That felt good, for once.

Even then, ignoring it grew difficult, and determination set into place. Yearning was spindled into motivation, and thus began my journey.

Research, scouring the internet, consulting every family member with a wave to their hair. 2A, 2B, 2C, 3A, 3B. Deciding on this curl cream and that gel, this specific brush. Throw in a silk pillowcase and I was all set.

The day my order came, I was practically buzzing with anticipation. I took my time with the new products, reveling in the process of reviving my sad frizzy hair. I eagerly waited for my labor to reward me with pretty, shiny curls.

Plot twist: it didn’t.

But of course products don’t work the very first time they’re used. Silly me. They don’t work the second time, either. Or the third. Maybe the fourth...?

Hope rises, then fades into despondency. Even after trying my very hardest, my very best, my wants never managed to bloom into reality. The routine slowly lost its charm, evolving into a procedure of assured dissatisfaction.

Until, one day, hope rose and rose into happiness.

Because after trial and error, after trying and wishing, it worked. My reflection showed curls pretty as could be, wide eyes tracing each spiral. In a daze, I raised my hand to touch the mirror.

Because what the mirror revealed to me was the girl in that picture, pleased with herself for the first time in a while.

“My Life’s Library”

By BRIANA CALIN

“Do not ever be afraid to start over.” - Esperanza Rising by Pam Muñoz Ryan

Books. The dreadful, paperful, boring rectangles that you are always encouraged to read. As a child, the idea that books were the gateway to your success was engraved into your brain. When I was six years old, my parents and I packed our suitcases to the brim and moved to America. A new language, new school, new friends, and new hobbies? I was completely terrified about the idea of starting over.

All of the opportunities that the future held for me were unforeseeable. In the hallways of my elementary school on my first day, a great sob escaped me as I covered my face with shaking hands; my lips were trembling and my eyes filled with never-ending waterfalls.

“Come on, Briana. It’ll be fun,” said my mom.

“There are so many nice kids here. Just come with me!” exclaimed a sweet guidance counselor.

“GO. INSIDE. NOW,” hollered my dad.

What was I supposed to say? I just DIDN'T want to go inside the scary, kid-full, American classroom.

After a long while sitting in the dirty, footprint-filled hallways, I was shown a bright and colorful book: Chicka Chicka Boom Boom. My cries slowly came to a stop. Although I couldn’t read the printed words on the page, the flamboyant coconut trees and rainbow letters of the alphabet resonated with me; I felt a sense of belonging to this new environment with new standards to fit into.

When I reached the fifth grade, I was already reading books like To Kill a Mockingbird and Esperanza Rising. Lots of quotes and themes from these books stuck with me throughout my early teenage years. As I continued to grow and adapt to American culture, I was surrounded by books of all kinds. My favorites were chapter books without pictures because the dull, black ink painted a mosaic in my mind.

During the beginning of my journey in America, I felt as if I were the ugly duckling who wouldn’t fit in anywhere. Books were my reconnection to the world, and they were a huge step in finding common ground in the land of the unknown.

More time passed, and as new adventures came, my love for books grew with me. “What’d you do today?” “What do you do in your free time?” All questions like these have had the same answer: “I read.” Novels have not only helped me comprehend life lessons, they’ve also compelled me to make connections to my own life. Although I haven't read every book there is, I can proudly say that I have felt true love, heartbreak, true friendship, and true loss.

Finding yourself is not an easy task, and planning your time ahead isn’t any easier. “To be or not to be?” What if I don’t know what to be? One thing I do know for sure is that I will incorporate books into my everyday life, as they have played such a big role in making me a curious, adventurous, perseverant, and confident individual who continues learning from her mistakes to conquer the day ahead. Despite the fact that I do not know what my future holds, I am sure of one thing — life is like a book. There are good chapters and there are bad chapters. Whatever my next chapter holds, I won’t be afraid to start over.

“But I’m going to read them all. I call it my Life’s Library. Every summer since I was little, I’ve gone to garage sales and bought all the books that looked interesting. So I always have something to read.” - Looking For Alaska by John Green