| | Felt like Posting all my college essays, enjoy |
I'm terrible at running. I suck at running. That's why I love cross-country. Cross-country is something I do partly because it doesn't fit with any of my other activities or hobbies but mainly because everybody thought I couldn't. You see, my sophomore year I started telling people I was going to join the team. I didn't mean it; I was joking. I knew how miserably out of shape I was. The joke continued until somebody said, “Are you kidding? There's no way you could do cross-country.” He was right—until he said that. So, in May, I went to the informational meeting about joining the team next fall, and I started running on my own. I ran at a slow enough pace to finish without having a heart attack and kept at it until summer break. That summer, some college programs I attended got in the way of this training, but running was always in the back of my mind. When I finally got back home, I was still a runner. I went to the rest of the team's summer workouts and started the school year eager to see how my focus would pay off—it didn't. In the first trial race, used to determine team placings, I came in dead last. Not by a little margin either—I got smoked. I didn't care. I ran, fueled by spite for everybody who said I didn't have it in me. After three weeks of throwing myself into practices, I was ready for the first official race. My practices paid dividends. I didn't get dead last; I actually beat a teammate, who promptly quit to avoid facing the shame of being worse than I. So, I was still last on the team. I kept running the entire year, getting a little better with every race. In the middle of the season, I beat another team member—he quit too. Still, I finished the season a full three minutes faster for a 5k race; even if I was still last place on our team, I was proud of my improvement. I was even more proud that I finished. Everytime I finished a race, I thought of the scumbag who said I couldn't do it. I did do it, and it felt good. I stuck with running, training like a madman while I was in Cambridge for the summer. It paid off; I got to run Varsity for a race and my coach named me senior leader for my hard work and dedication to the team—not bad for a debate nerd whose prior physical experience consisted primarily of chewing. Though I joined cross-country to prove something to everybody else, the real accomplishment was what I proved to myself: I can succeed outside of my comfort zone.
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Debating competitively has taught me that without understanding the world view in which a position is based, persuasion against it is vacuous, even if eloquent. Because teams switch sides every round, debaters often argue a position they wholeheartedly believe in for two hours only to spend the next two hours dismantling and attacking their previous position. Dealing with this constant role reversal has taught me that to effectively argue a position with which I personally disagree, I must not only understand the position itself, but also the world view which led to those conclusions. It's not so much about walking a mile in the opposition's shoes as it is looking at their footprints to understand where they're coming from. In a country as politically polarized as the United States, it's easy to forget that the other side is more than just a caricature. Debate helps me to avoid that trap.
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My older brother Jeff tells me his earliest memory of us together is me erupting like a vomit volcano all over his outstretched arms... and face... and favorite shirt. I'm glad he didn't let my colic sour our relationship because Jeff played a large role in my intellectual development. Cooties, for example, are a terminal condition, as Jeff explained to me when I was in kindergarten. His tutelage didn't end at infectious diseases. I sparred intellectually with Jeff on matters far less relevant to the life of an elementary school student. While boys my age dreamed of playing in the major leagues and girls fantasized about being supermodels, I wrangled with Jeff about the history, philosophy, and literature Jeff was studying both in school five grades ahead of me and independently. The talks became a ritual; when Jeff learned something he found interesting, he would pass it on to me.
During one of our many discussions, I informed Jeff of my future career plans (I had every intention of becoming supreme emperor of earth). My older, wiser, and more pessimistic brother proceeded to break my heart by citing Francis Fukuyama’s fiendish book, The End of History and the Last Man. The book, Jeff explained, argues that history is more or less over, and that democracy has won—so much for world domination. Imagine my grief: at a mere ten years old, I discovered my plans were futile because I had been born too late. The incident, long forgotten by Jeff, was the spark that ignited my passion for international relations. After spending a day mourning my dashed dreams, I set out to independently research what the world's future really held. At ten I was fascinated, though bewildered, just by reading international news in the morning paper. That process never stopped. Now, at 17, I've read Francis Fukuyama's book and many others on the subject. I have even studied international relations at Harvard University's Summer School program. I started my research into international relations in an effort to prove Jeff wrong, but now the subject is my chosen major for college and also my planned career focus for life—scholar, not emperor.
I owe Jeff a lot for teaching me silly things, like how to swipe extra dessert without Mom noticing; I owe Jeff a lot for chronicling the mischievous exploits of his imaginary character, BobFred, before I went to sleep every night; I owe Jeff a lot for sticking with me even after I barfed all over him, but I can't even begin to imagine how I'll repay him for inspiring in me a true love of learning. Soon I'll leave high school and enter the real world. Jeff won't be there to lead the way or show me a map, but I'll still be prepared for what lies ahead because Jeff has done something far better: he has shown me how to use my inner compass. Now, I can blaze my own path.
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