college essay

A fascination with color occurred within me the first time my mother set me down at the two foot tall yellow table with blue trim and a matching blue chair. She sat me there with a bright white sheet of paper and a pack of twenty-four vastly different brightly colored crayons just screaming to be used. At first, as any child, I grabbed randomly at all the crayons and went to town scratching the points across the paper and snapping the thin bodies in half, but as I grew older and continued to use color throughout my life, the process of picking which crayon I wanted became more important, for now the color carried another meaning besides the name stamped on its wrapper.

Yellow instantly attracted me. Bright and flashy, it easily caught my eye; however, as I looked back on drawings done in yellow, the color has lost its luster. I strained my eyes to spy the faded brilliance. Yellow represented times when I jumped in feet forward, disregarding the florescent cautionary tape. Once- at the ripe old age of eight, I experienced a “marigold” moment in the kitchen as a young chef. It was my uncle’s birthday, and my aunt sang happily as she made his cake while my cousin and I played outside. I ran inside for a quick drink of water and saw the mixer beating away. Next to the mixing bowl sat a supposed- nice, sugary, light, fluffy substance resembling icing. I drew a spoon out from the drawer. I dug deep into the bowl and piled the spoon high with “icing”. It went directly into my salivating mouth. Oh! What I tasted sure shocked me! Instead of a light, sugary delectable treat, I got a thick mouthful of unsalted sweet cream butter! Thus, yellow became a color I used sparingly, highlighting important aspects of the sketch.

In the seventh grade, I pulled a dark green crayon from the box. At first I liked it very much. Its endless possibilities paralleled my fascination for its rich color. However, I quickly learned that this alluring depth and darkness had its downfalls. My mother had always warned me of the power of this color, but I never truly understood. In middle school I had gone to school with the same group of children for about eight years, but somehow, seemingly overnight, things took a drastic turn, and I stood on the outside looking in. The girls began to talk of their new designer purses their mothers had bought them that had cost roughly two hundred dollars. New jeans now cost three hundred- not twenty dollars. I could not comprehend those numbers; my shirt, pants and purse from the discount store had cost less than her pair of jeans and suddenly that made a difference. I became completely distressed by this and my mother, wanting to make me happy, decided she would treat me to a shopping day. My mom took me to the designer store where she withstood the blasting music and bit her tongue as girls my own age walked by scantily clad and looking an easy ten years older. There, we purchased three new shirts totaling just about how much we spent on groceries for the week. About two months passed and it became evident that I only had three of these designer labeled garments, yet it seemed that the other girls never wore the same shirt twice. I began to feel entitled to these expensive things and developed an attitude about not getting them. I refused to wear my discounted clothes, so my mother decided to pack them up and bring them to our local abused women’s shelter, and she forced me to go with her to drop them off. This was one of the best things she ever did for me because there I saw the women so appreciative of my used clothing. In that parking lot, as I unpacked the boxes of discounted used clothing from the car and handed it to the smiling thankful women, the green crayon I had been holding slipped from my hand and shattered into a million pieces before me; I became happy, for I now understood my true source of wealth lived in generosity. Once I stepped back and looked at the paper, I easily noticed how the greedy green overpowered my sketch, forcing me to learn one of my most valued lessons -the importance of sharing this particular color with others.

The next crayon I chose happened to be the one that usually remains unused- white. As I pulled it out from the box, I noticed flecks of other colors that speckled it. Once I dragged it across the page, it lost its purity, tainted by the colorful smears of the surrounding crayons. Once I picked off all the other colors from it, I tried again to draw with it, but nothing appeared for the paper itself was white. I learned a new appreciation for the color, for it was the basis that allowed all the colors to be seen. White comes in many different shades. You have eggshell, ivory, cream, chantilly lace, stark snow and then you could even consider shades of gray as forms of white. I tend to look at things in shades of gray, for I refuse to jump to a black and white assumption on anything. This aspect of my personality has flourished largely because of growing up in an extremely dogmatic environment. After withstanding thirteen years of Catholic school and staunch conservative opinions- I have learned to appreciate genuine exchanges in authentic dialogue and conversations. For this reason, I never press my pencil down very hard on my paper. When I print; instead, I sweep it across, making light, but recognizable marks. Though they may not scream for your attention, if you take a step back, you may just see how these light strokes add up to something great. I wait and carefully mold my thoughts and beliefs. I do not fade into the background; in fact, just like white, I build a strong foundation based on well-rounded ideas. I gently place the white back into the box for safekeeping. Even though I do not always have it out in use, whenever I see it there in the box, I smile knowing it is making its own silent impact.

Currently red is the color I choose most often. It’s singular character, definite confidence, and sanguine ability to breath life onto the page imbues every piece of paper it touches. Just like red, I have an optimistic and enthusiastic view on life. I bring a cheerful attitude to most situations, adding a spring to my step and allowing the curls to bounce on my head. Red simply exudes passion, for I am often found around campus involved in some debate advocating the rights of the oppressed or getting censored for my ideas that seem too red-ical. Often times I find red on other papers in my life, either congratulating me on a job well done or pointing out mistakes I have made so I can correct and learn from them. Another aspect of red that keeps me holding on, is its ability to mix with the other colors and make new beautiful ones like purple and orange. Although I have been working on my drawing for a while now, it is far from finished. Red will not be the last and only color I use for the duration of my life, but for now this red crayon fits comfortably in my hand.