21/09/2012
(CARA'S ESSAY)
At the tender age of five it was already clear to me that I was destined to be a singer. Not just any singer; a pop superstar. Armed with Christina Aguilara’s first album, I lip-synced passionately while twirling and gyrating across the living room, much to the annoyance of my mom and sister. Along with Britney Spear’s Oops! I Did It Again video, I had the perfect arsenal of learning materials. I figured I would see my name in lights by the time I was a teenager, and get to date a cute member of a boyband (preferably Nick Carter).
I’m sure I would have had potential if it were not for a single, immutable fact: that my singing voice falls somewhere between a broken lawnmower and a howler monkey. The kind of career I wanted didn’t require a soprano (see: Britney Spears) necessarily, but nonetheless my voice wouldn’t even do justice to a generic Top 40 tune. To no avail, I auditioned for singing parts in school plays, and watched my more talented classmates enjoy the limelight I so desired.
By the time I was ten or so, I had wizened up considerably: I knew that I had neither the voice for a singer and that most aspiring actors are on a fast track to standing behind a McDonald’s counter.
When we first arrived in New York, my mom, my sister and I were staying at a relative’s apartment on Bleecker Street. Even the chaos that ensued following 9/11 couldn’t dampen my fascination with my new environment. My new home was just a few blocks away from the NYU campus, and it was there that I fell in love with the neighborhood and it people. Strolling in Washington Square Park in the autumn, with the leaves yellowing and sharply dressed students populating the coffee shops, I knew at once that I had to go to NYU for college. I knew that I had to wear black turtlenecks and have grand philosophic conversations with esteemed professors, and I had to live in Greenwich Village. I had little idea of the great cost that this all would come at, but at the age of ten, legal adulthood seemed like centuries away.
After my visions of stardom had been killed by healthy doses of reality, my dream career changed several times. At one point I wanted to be a doctor, and then a dentist, and then a published author and then…
Only one detail of my plan for life remained unchanged: my dream of attending NYU. When I opened my acceptance letter, I wasn’t shocked or ecstatic, but instead I felt a deep tranquility, like a piece of a puzzle falling comfortably in place. I had the opportunity to attended other universities, but for me the choice had been made nearly a decade before.
Now going into my sophomore year at NYU, I can’t say that I’ve had no doubts about my choice. One thing I didn’t consider when I was a child was how huge a financial commitment NYU is. Wracked with guilt at seeing my mother push herself at work for my own benefit, I wonder if I should have gone to the University of Maryland instead. It’s no Manhattan of course, but in these hard times we can’t always get what we want. Then again, if I’ve made it from an impoverished neighborhood in Phoenix, Arizona to New York University, what would be the point in throwing in the towel because it’s convenient? It turns out my dream is an ongoing process; just because I’ve obtained it doesn’t mean I can keep it. However, I don’t intend to loosen my grip on my dreams anytime soon. I love the coffee shops and philosophic conversations too much.
I know that I will persevere through any crisis, financial or otherwise, because some things were just meant to be. Seeing my mom rise to the occasion each day, I know that perseverance is one of the few qualities that make things happen for real. Oh, and money too. That always helps.
