Essay#2

 Writing Autobiography  

Why I write essay 300-700 wordd

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LaBorde 1

Christopher LaBorde

Professor Brett Evans

English Composition II

September 3, 2014

Why I Write

Every Wednesday in my fifth grade English class I heard, “Chris LaBorde, Brian Guess and Bradley Tedesco please stand. Your skit is up next.” Our classmates loved our weekly skits; the lack luster emphasis on the correctness of the English language and childish humor was destined to be only appreciated by other fifth graders. We took pride in our weekly handwritten comedy skits, taking all weekend to prepare and practice our Emmy deserving performances. I remember the arguments we had over the arrangement in which the acts would be performed. The arguments themselves were sometimes written into the act. If we were not arguing we were always laughing. Laughing at topics we had brainstormed together, scripts we created that contained curse words, and we imagined the reaction of the teacher if we ever had the intestinal fortitude to read from the curse filled scripts in front of the class. We enjoyed those times. I enjoyed those times very much. I enjoyed writing and making people laugh.

Laughter played a huge role in my youth. I was never the serious kid so when it came to writing assignments that had to be turned into the teacher for a serious grade I clammed up. How could I, a proven veteran fifth grade comedy sketch mogul, make an adult laugh through my writing? How could I achieve this insurmountable task while keeping the assigned subject matter on the right path? Those questions were answered on several occasions when corrected assignments were disseminated back to the rightful owners. Being the self-proclaimed comedy genius that I thought I was, I constantly had an un-humorous facial expression upon viewing my freshly red inked masterpieces. Routinely, the words “This assignment was not a joke!” appeared on the title pages along with the classic two dots and frowning smile. I always thought this type of criticism only happened to me but apparently not. Lorrie Moore wrote about her similar experience:

“When you get it back, he has written on it: ‘Some of your images are quite nice, but you have no sense of plot.’ When you are home, in the privacy of your own room, faintly scrawl in pencil beneath his black- inked comments: ‘Plots are for dead people, pore- face’” (Moore).

After receiving more than a few under par grades my hatred for writing blossomed. I felt as though my cortex was not in sync with the other smoothly running pieces of my youthful brain. I felt as though I lacked the talent for writing academic related essays, narratives, poems, etc. I just didn’t want to write anymore. According to Joan Didion, “a ‘good’ writer or a ‘bad’ writer but simply a writer, [is] a person whose most absorbed and passionate hours are spent arranging words on pieces of paper” (Didion).

Well I was not a writer. Instead of completing writing assignments I would spend passionate hours playing video games. I gave up and my grades reflected my empty-handed effort. Well not totally empty-handed, the PlayStation controller sat pretty comfortably in them.

Sixth grade through sophomore year I just floated through classes worrying about my athletic achievements rather than my below average academic achievements. I had a talent for football. I thought in my mind that I was going pro, especially after taking a senior’s position at tailback and free-safety. I was only a sophomore and I had two years of starting experience for the varsity team under my belt. I figured I was so special that I did not need to attend practices on Monday and Tuesday afternoons. I skipped those practices two weeks in a row. On the third Monday my head coach caught me as I was walking out of the school’s front entrance. “You’re off the team”, he said. They were dreaded words that I would never forget.

I stood again with that fifth grade un-humorous facial expression, this time alone at the front gate of the school. I stood and pondered about why I thought I was so special, special enough to walk in on Friday nights and play with teammates who busted their ass all week in practice when I didn’t. I realized that I was not special and I had just lost the only significant thing in my life that I cared about.

I walked home, sat on my bed, and wrote. My writing emphasized the correct use of the English language and the content was as humorous as a basset hound puppy (undoubtedly the cutest puppy ever to be created) being thrown from a bridge. I was sad. I was truly sad and serious about regaining everyone’s respect. The apology letter reflected my sadness. It reflected my newly found dedication to being the best teammate and athlete that school would ever see. It was the first thing I had written since fifth grade that made me proud. It was a testament of my emotions and promises that had hidden instructions. Those hidden instructions flowed through the apology letter as fast as the Passaic River flows through New Jersey and they were going to erode me into the best possible person. The next day I stood before my coaches and read them the apology letter that would later allow me back on the team. I became addicted to practicing. I became a leader. I became a college football player on a college scholarship because of that apology letter.

A freshman athlete in college, wow what a new and unique experience. I was not a star. No one knew me. My days were filled with practice and academic courses that overwhelmed me. One class was English Composition. “Great”, I thought. I had to write again and the first assignment dealt with writing about death in your life. Unfortunately, I knew about death. I had the undesirable pleasure of witnessing my father shoot and kill my mother. Then he shot and killed himself. I was twelve years old and it always felt like it had happened yesterday. I would barely even speak to anyone at school about it. I look back now and can relate to Stephen Elliot’s essay where he wrote: “The worst times were the quiet ones, the calm before the storm of my father’s rage. I was my father’s opposite; my explosions were internal” (Elliott).

Everyone back home knew about my parents but I had never openly written any type of paper on their death. I had never even thought about writing in a journal. I just never wrote anything. But for some un-explainable reason I went home to my dorm room that night and wrote. Once again I found myself writing about something I had lost. I hated writing about anything serious or so I thought. I had banged on my keyboard for six straight hours only removing my eyes from the keyboard to check the time. Practice came early and I would never miss a practice again thanks to that old apology letter. When I turned in my paper later that week I expected the next time I would see my new “pride on paper” it would be covered in that nostalgic red ink, frowning face and all. But to my surprise a few weeks later I received my paper back with an “A” written over the title. I thought to myself this instant could only be more rewarding if there was a red inked smiley face next to that “A”!

A year later Katrina destroyed my house that my sister and I had been living in together before I had left for college. It was painful to hear so I left college at the beginning of my sophomore football season to come back home. I could not just sit in my dorm room knowing that my sister had lost everything. I helped her rebuild which in turn led me to having a vision of myself helping something bigger rebuild. The New Orleans metropolitan area was rebuilding and needed help because it had lost everything. I decided to help by joining the New Orleans Police Department. I passed the evaluations and got accepted into the police academy.

On the first day I learned pretty quickly that my new career consisted of me writing reports every day. Writing reports about crimes, arrests, and deaths, etc. We as officers are taught to always write in third person, tell a detailed account of the facts and write using a vocabulary that a jury can understand. We are taught that way because jurors may not have had the opportunity to be as fortunate in their academic achievements as others. I write now for a purpose. I write now in a serious and professional manner because it could affect the outcome of criminals being allowed to roam the streets and commit more crimes. I write now for a conviction and there is nothing funny about that. George Orwell explained it best when he wrote; “I give all this background information because I do not think one can assess a writer’s motives without knowing something of his early development. His subject matter will be determined by the age he lives in — at least this is true in tumultuous, revolutionary ages like our own — but before he ever begins to write he will have acquired an emotional attitude from which he will never completely escape” (Orwell).

I hope this helped you understand why I write.

Works Cited

Didion, Joan. “Why I Write.”
Bridge Water College. New York Book Review, 5 Dec. 1976.

Web. 23 Aug. 2014.

Elliott, Stephen. “Why I Write.”
The Rumpus. n.p. 20 Aug. 2009. Web. 23 Aug. 2014.

Moore, Lorrie. “How to Become a Writer or, Have You Earned This Cliche?”
The New York

Times. New York Times, 3 March 1985. Web. 25 Aug. 2014.
Orwell, George. “Why I Write”. Orell.ru
.
Gangrel. 1946. Web. 26 Aug. 2014.