Below are three essays that received the highest ratings when evaluated by their peers during the Spring 2006 semester. Essay #1 was voted the best essay.

Essay #1

I Believe In Being a Dad

When I was fifteen years old, I was caught stealing a deck of cards from a convenience store. When my parents picked me up at the police station, I was scared to think of what they might say. On the way home that day there was not a single word spoken. When we finally arrived home, my father said to me, “Son, you don’t know how much what you have done has hurt your mom and me. But one day, when you have kids of your own, you will know how much you mean to us.” I didn’t know how true those words were until my daughter Kiara was born. I believe in being a good father, and provider to my child.

The day my daughter was born, a whole new sense of responsibility came into my life. I had never seen anything as beautiful as her. At that moment my life had changed forever. Now I had the responsibility of taking care of someone else other than myself. This was an entirely new concept for me. Now I had diapers to change, bottles to fix, puke stained clothes to wash, and that is just to start. Not to mention that all that stuff costs money. As she has gotten older, she has grown exponentially smarter. I can now see her trying to do all the things that I do. Several days ago I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper. When I looked to my right, there was my daughter holding a Sesame Street book upside down trying her best to read it. She was trying so hard to be just like me. This was an example to me that as her father, I have the responsibility of setting a good example.

When I became a father, I became my child’s provider. About a year before my daughter was born, I started working at a local plastics factory. Just as with every job I held prior to my daughters’ birth, I fell into a routine of absenteeism, tardiness, and poor work performance. I didn’t have much of a reason to work. As long as I had enough hours in at the end of the month to pay my rent and feed myself at least once a day, I felt like I was doing just fine. By the time my daughter was born, I was on the verge of losing my job. But now I had Kiara, and things were different. I now had a goal to work towards, that goal was to give her the best life I can give her. I started showing up for all of my shifts, not just some of them. My performance at work improved as well, my production rate doubled in two months time. Two months after that, I got a raise. I took pride in what I was doing now, because now I did it to take care of my daughter.

Being a father has some of the simplest yet greatest rewards. One night several weeks ago, I worked a twelve hour shift at the factory I am employed at. In addition to being a long day, it was also one of the more hectic I can remember. I was on my feet the whole twelve hours without a lunch break. When quitting time came around I was exhausted. I could already feel my head hitting my pillow. I thought to myself, “What is my reward for all of this?” I picked my daughter up at my parents’ house and headed home. When we got inside the door, Kiara ran directly to the bookshelf and came carrying back her favorite book. She ran up to me, tugged on my finger, and exclaimed, “Read Da-Da, read!” At that moment, I saw my reward staring up at me with her long curly bangs falling down and partially covering her big brown eyes which so closely resemble my own. These are the moments that brighten my life. To some money is what they love most. For others, it is glory or fame. For me the greatest reward is being able to take time out of my busy life and just be her father.

I have been gifted with the privilege of being a father, and it has changed who I am today. Having a child has made me a much better person than I was before. My daughter is the single greatest source of happiness in my life and probably always will be. The only sad part is, she may never understand until she has kids of her own.

Essay #2

It’s Only Time

A long time ago, I learned that doing things for others always made me feel good. Doing for other people for me means sharing a part of myself. I believe in using my time to help people feel good.

When I was a small child, I learned first hand how great it felt to have someone take their time and do things for me. In the spring before I started school, I contracted Polio and had to be in a Louisville Hospital for around six months for surgery and physical therapy. To my surprise, about a week after my surgery, my twin sister decided to come and stay with me to help with my therapy exercises. I had assumed she would be staying home with my dad in Henderson. As I returned to my room from my therapy session, I saw her for the first time. Normally, the room felt cold and empty. It now felt warm and full. She helped me from the wheelchair to the bed. Then she started showing me the therapy exercises the doctor told her she could do for me. She raised my leg and put pressure against my foot as she bent my leg at the knee. She also helped me to stand on my toes to try and get strength built back in my leg. Later, we played a card game called Matching Numbers. We laughed and talked about how much we missed each other. I said a prayer and thanked Jesus for her being there. Even at that young age it meant so much to me to know she took her time to make me feel good.

Years later, when I owned a daycare, I used my time to make a little girl happy with a very special birthday. During playtime I asked a few of the kids to tell me about any of their past birthday parties. Olivia said she had never had a party because her mommy didn’t have the money. I then started to make plans to give her one. On her birthday, before she arrived, the bigger kids were helping blow up balloons and putting decorations on the table. The little ones were watching television or doing puzzles. We had all signed a card and wrapped a few presents that I had gotten. When she arrived, just as I thought, she came in and started screaming and jumping up and down. She leaped in my arms and hugged me tight. She thanked me over and over.

Last summer, I was able to use my time to help keep up my aunt’s spirits during her last days. She was in the hospital with terminal cancer. I wanted to be with her as much as I could. I spent each Saturday morning doing the little things I could with her, One Saturday I washed her hair and then read her the letters and cards that she had received that week She loved having company and having someone listen as she told stories of her and my dad’s childhood. I envisioned the details as she told them. She said she didn’t know what she would have done without me. She said I gave her something to look forward to each week. I know I made her feel happy and loved by just spending some of my time doing the little things for her.

Time is a precious thing. Sometimes it’s all a person can give to another. I find that I am always wishing I had more time so I can do more for others.

Essay#3

I Believe In Laughter

Everyone has experienced some kind of pain. A personal injury or the loss of a loved one can be devastating. Perhaps finding some humor in the situation could ease this pain. This is something that I depend on in my times of need, and it works every time. So whether my pain is physical or emotional, I believe that laughter makes all of life’s mishaps better.

When I was fourteen, I found humor in an injury received when I was hit, quite hard, above the elbow with a softball. I was standing on the pitcher’s mound during a tournament, softball game. It was the bottom of the seventh, and I was trying my best to end the inning. The next two pitches were strikes. Then the third pitch. It was right down the middle. ZAP! It was a line drive straight into my right arm, just above the elbow. I was on the ground before I could blink. The pain was automatic, and felt like someone had tried to pull my arm off. As everyone quickly gathered around to see if I was okay, I heard someone say, “Look at her arm.” I glanced down and through my tears I noticed the imprint of the stitches from the ball. It was so strange, because I could literally make out every seam. Everyone was staring at me. I suppose they expected me to be screaming with pain. Instead, I began to laugh so hard that the tears running down my cheeks were more from the laughing than from the pain I felt. I believe that the laughter seemed to make the pain less intense. Even though my arm was sore, I managed to finish the inning thanks to those humorous stitches I received.

A couple of years later, I found myself laughing, again, at pain that was somewhat self-inflicted. My sister and I were goofing off in the yard one beautiful summer afternoon and my mother had asked me to come onto the porch. I took off running and tried to jump the steps, but unfortunately, I missed. I found myself flying through the air, and I couldn’t regain control. I finally landed face first on the porch, and as I landed I felt my nose splatter on the surface beneath me. It took a few moments before I could look up to see what had happened. As I glanced around, I noticed that no one was running to my rescue. I did notice, however, that blood was pouring from my nose, and I thought that it was a possibility that it might be broken. Neither of my family members present could control of themselves long enough to help me see how bad the damage was. They did however, begin to reenact the fall. My sister got out of the swing and took off across the porch and began doing what looked like clumsy, ballerina moves. Then she landed with a splat. My mother just kept laughing. When she took a moment to catch her breath, she told me that I looked like a circus reject falling from the high wire. As they began to relive my agony, I began to see that it must have been hilarious from their angle. I started to laugh at what they were saying. I could just see myself clumsily falling through open space and landing with a huge finish. It was Olympic material, and it may have won me the gold. The laughter around me helped me forget about my injury for the moment. I eventually managed to clean off my face and stop the bleeding. My nose wasn’t broken, but for the next couple of weeks every time I looked in the mirror at the bruises I had to laugh a little at myself and my gracefulness.

Six years ago, I found myself finding humor at, of all places, my grandmother’s funeral. My grandmother had been ill for about two years with cancer, and it finally took her in June of 2000. My mom and her sister took care of some last minute details in the arrangements. On the day of visitation, my great, great aunt had some ideas of her own. She disagreed with all the arrangements, even the one’s my grandmother had made. The funeral home was full of people from the community at funeral time coming to pay their respects to this wonderful lady. The pastor got up and said wonderful things about my grandmother, like what a good Christian woman she was, always out to help someone else. After his beautiful words, they closed the casket. On the first note of “In the Sweet By and By” I sat straight up in my seat. I recognized the song as one that the crazy aunt said she did not want to be played, because it is played at everyone’s funeral. She was sitting in front of me and she began to fidget. She started adjusting her scarf, and she looked around the room as if she was embarrassed to be there. One by one we all began to laugh. First it was me, and I tried so hard not to let anyone see. Then my sister noticed that I had lost it, and that got her started. We were doubled over laughing. Then I noticed that the family members on the front row were in the same shape. I am not just talking about silent laughter. I am speaking of laughter that comes from deep inside. It felt great. I no longer cared what the others in the room would think, because I knew that my grandmother was laughing with us wherever she was.

Everyone should have a vice to turn to in their time of need. Laughter is what I believe makes the hard pitches seem just a little softer at the time of impact.