Senior Portfolio: Creative Sample

“You Could Go With This, or
You Can Go With That”
The Cogitations of a Black Sheep


“You want to make friends. Point a sword in their face.” – Rev. Goodlove

If only it was that easy. I fear of being an outcast because I fear being a follower. Such a paradox worries me. The question goes through my head: Follower or an Individual I need to balance these things. Being a follower means no individuality. For me to have no DNA I won’t have any inner beauty. I won’t have heart or soul. A automaton. It can mean having a community. To belong to a group. To be nourished and given aid. To be accepted by people like you. Although to be an individual, I shouldn’t care about social status. To have now need for requirements. Having a name people will remember. Nevertheless, the individual can be misunderstood. I applied for the Literary Society. Being in a club meant asylum. Not being “that” loser in school. Means a form of extra-curricular activities I walked in the door I with my application in one hand and an U.S. history book in the other. What I was doing there? Pairs of eyes stared at me. a of students near me, four or five of them. They didn’t even know I existed. When I handed my application over, I felt that hollow feeling inside. To be alone. I stumble out the room. I walked down the nearest staircase. It was done. The situation played repeatedly. Then the questions came to me. Was there something wrong with me? Was there something on my face? What was that “look” for? Was I not good enough? The questions had gone all afternoon. I felt cold and hollow inside. I didn’t think I would return.

Then it came to me: Fencing! My brother did it last year. He thought it was alright. I considered taking a year, too. I borrowed my brother’s equipment. I went to see the academy. I walked into the studio; I see golden plaques on the wall. There are many trophies and ribbons. As I look, the pupils stop. The voices rise and fall. I asked around for the instructor. They point vaguely behind me. I see a tall blonde lady. Her name is Helen. We shook hands and I smiled. She introduces me to the class. I then hear vague awkward replies. My equipment becomes heavy. I feel apart form myself. My soul watches my body. It looks along with the pupils. It begs me to heed instruction. I feel hollow again. The cold kicks in. I feel surrounded by the pupils. I snap out of it. The day is done.
The next day, I begin practice. I walk into the studio. I try to walk in rhythm. I try to get familiar. The instructor greets me again. I smile and wave lively. I think I made an effort. I put on my gear quickly. The whistle has blown. She begins the class. She has us do some stretching. We break up by weapon type. I am now with some company. Two girls and three guys. I begin to wonder to myself. Do the girls feel awkward? Maybe I’m sitting too close. Are they the open type? Where are they from? Maybe they live around here. Should I ask? It will sure calm me down. One was from Fall River. Her name was Penelope. The other, Nancy, was from Brockton. I felt like I was melting. I came out of my shell. I fell into a rhythm. I re-introduced myself to the group. The instructor divides us by two. Nancy and I were sparring partners. I then felt shy again. I began talking to her. I thought that it would help. What gave you interest in fencing? Is it your first time? Do you enjoy it? The questions came in a pace. We began with a warm-up beat. A rhythmic conversation with blades. The cadence was dull, but refreshing. She asked me questions too. How old are you? What year are you? Do you play any other sports? I tried to answer her. I was stumbling, I was nervous. I was out of my body again. She was probably psychic. She read the expression on my face. She smiled.

“I need to say something!”, I thought. So I asked her a few questions. “How long have you been fencing? What School do you go to? Got a boyfriend? Yes!? Got a sister?” I was dead. She had that surprised look. Somebody smack me. Her laugh pierced me. Then her sabre did. I was back in my body. “I guess that answers that question”. Confidence. She came back to me. Was she jealous? Afterwards, Nancy and I talked. “Off all the sports” she opened. “Why’d you choose fencing?”. “To kill people” I said teasingly. She giggled again, I loved her laugh. She promised to see me again. I never heard that from a girl before. I took it as a good omen. I grew a little. I became human.
My soul was looking at me. He picked up a sign. It read “About time! You Loser”. I felt reborn again. I made an effort. I passed. I have a soul. I am a man. I exist. I am not a loser. I am significant. I am alive.