Chapel Talk

I spent hours sitting in my bed, kicking off sheets and blankets in frustration, to leave me staring at a blank word document on my computer screen. I struggled to write this essay more than others; it was like I couldn’t think for my self anymore. I was stressing about topics to make my teacher happy, ideas that would give me a good grade, and perspectives that weren’t my own. It hadn’t fazed me until then that I was writing for acceptance. My complete paragraphs weren’t something I have felt extremely passionate about; they echoed what I had been taught in the past to care about. But it’s a funny thing to write what you want, I can feel somewhere that I know what I want to write about, but it is never surfaced for the fear someone will hear my own opinions and disagree with them.

            I’m not angry with the fact I couldn’t come up with words for myself, I angry with myself suppressing all of the thoughts I hear rambling in my head all day long, the ones that I never allow to slip past the barrier and out of my mouth. So many times I keep what I’m thinking to myself, and I don’t think its because I’m embarrassed about what I have to say, but I think that if someone tells me I’m wrong, I’ll never share what I have to say again. So in efforts to preserve my ability to speak, I have become selective about the things I allow myself to say. But in years of closing myself off from the disproval from others, I have silenced my self even further than I imagined disapproval would. It’s a rare sight now to see my hand waving in the air to answer a question in class, for me to walk up and introduce myself to someone first, or for me to engage someone in conversation.

            For my eighth grade graduation, I had the help of a teacher I had only met twice to write my speech. I wrote three and a half pages about how wonderful our class was, how well we behaved and how I had faith that even after years apart, we would still all remain just as close; I didn’t believe a word about anything I said. I reiterated what I was told was expected of the presidential speech, as I’m sure was told to the previous speech givers before me. I still regret not saying what I wanted to say in front of my class and all of our parents; so I’m going to say it now. Thank you for ten great years together as a class. Some of us are going to hold onto these years for as long as we can, but I don’t recommend that. Don’t take these years for granted, because they don’t come back, but don’t be ashamed to move on with the rest of your life. I’m going to a different school than most of you, and there’s a chance I’m not going to see some you again, but you have all altered my life in some way or another, and I probably haven’t told you, but thank you.

            I regret not saying what I believed in that gymnasium every time I bump into a former classmate. I had the un-wavering attention of a few hundred people all at one instant, listening to what I had to say, and I used my minutes echoing what my teachers expected me to say in fear of disappointing people.  Although I still struggle expressing what I’m feeling and thinking, I realize now I shouldn’t hold back what I think, and slowly I’m getting to a point where I no longer worry about these thoughts anymore.