I'm now twenty-five years old. To put it simply, I've been wondering about what it took to be a man. I'm writing to make sense of my life by narrating portions of it, and also because I hope to share universal implications that may come from my specific example. You see, I've been writing my whole life, and I'm now going to try and use it in a way I've never used it before.
I started out writing mostly because I started out reading. Coming to America at the age of six, I was bound to books by parents and teachers alike so that I could learn the language. What they didn't anticipate was that I would hold on to them dearly. I was the only Asian-American boy in my class, so I sought refuge frequently in books. My mother indulged me; she took me to the library often, and I'd come home with a stack of books that I had to steady with my chin.
And every little boy wants to imitate what they know. During times I wasn't imitating Power Rangers, I was writing. I wrote a whole series of stories chronicling the adventures of a computerized King Kong while in elementary school. My teachers took notice and tried to help me flourish. In fourth grade, I was sent to a state-wide writers' conference for elementary students. There, we got to exchange stories and do readings out loud for one another. The following year, against policy, I was sent a second time. This just goes to show that, though we may view the education process as an impassive system, teachers are human beings who dedicate their lives to teaching children, and they find excitement and value when it becomes obvious how to help, as long as you proactively show promise. They jumped at the chance to help me.
My high school years were great. I never had so much fun, but I never achieved as much, either. For my graduation outfit, I got to enjoy the adornments for the Key club, the French club, the honor roll, and a few others; but my favorite award went something like this:
The school announced a school-wide poetry contest. Everyone was to submit one poem to their literature teachers. About a week later, my teacher excitedly told me to attend the award ceremony for the contest after school the next day. I went with some of my friends, and I ended up winning the award for third place in the Family category. I took it graciously and left early with my friends. The next day, my teacher came up to me once again and asked why I hadn't been at the award ceremony. I assured her I went and told her I had received the award. She shook her head. She said I had missed the final award they had given out. She said it was the award for the one the entire school chose as their favorite, the Principal's Award. She said I should've stayed. She reached out and handed me the award. It was one of the greatest unexpected things I've gotten.
After high school, I went to college and pursued what I knew and enjoyed, writing. I graduated as an English major, and I spent most of my four total years in college writing essays; and I daresay I got good at them. It was very formulaic, really, thinking up arguments for my theses. Sad to say, I got so used to writing essays, in fact, I forgot how to take tests, and I didn't do as well as I pleased in my electives towards the end of my college career. Also, I graduated a semester late because I took off a semester to work full-time at a sushi restaurant and sent myself to England to study abroad for the summer. After college, I found work teaching English, once for an entire year in South Korea.
And through a series of very peculiar events, I am about to enter Seminary school. And from what I've heard, what do you think the majority of the grades depends on? Writing. It's almost poetic how I heard this only after I made the choice.
I feel now that I'm able to write a little more freely ever since I received a white envelope on Thursday containing a letter that announced my acceptance into Columbia Theological Seminary. As shallow as credibility may seem, I realized that as long as I glorified God, he would put me on a humble pedestal so that I may say what I will about him. I've even just finished a novel, though upon rereading it, it can tend to be a little mild and slow at times, but I was mostly trying at my stylistic inventions. However, now that I've worked on it, I'll see it through and attempt to publish it.
I think that all men want to make an impression of their lives while they live. Some men do it through fear and intimidation in the people around them, counting on these momentary opinions to construct their identity. Some do it by trying to leave some type of legacy to memory. Others do it by instilling their lives' values in others, while still others try to leave behind a brand that commemorates their part in it.
But I think that some of the greatest in history chose to write.
