My Experience Essay
The narrative method is undoubtedly one of the widely adapted storytelling techniques. The free flow of subjective discourses renders a special charm to the events that occur chronologically. “Narration sets forth an ideological address that positions the reading subject in relation to discourse. ” (Cohan 137) Any given narrative can be sectioned for the purpose of focalization or further analysis of the plot. The conflicts in the progression of the story can sometimes demand a brief pause of the narrative so that the plot in itself can be made open to symbolic interpretation for the sake of emphasis.
Based on the narrative technique, this essay is going to recount a very personal experience of mine. The experience led me to believe that the course of my life was sealed. I felt so because at that point of time I could not see myself going anywhere in terms of the pursuit of my passion, which was unknown. Ever since I was admitted to school, I never found academics as my forte. When I was in standard VI, I used to get into a dizzying dilemma as to what I should do with the algebraic variables like x, y, z and so on. Mathematical digits and numbers used to jump up and down in front of my bewildering eyes.
One day at the examination center Miss Dickenson, our high school Maths teacher remarked rather resignedly, “Don’t you think you’re like a round peg in a square hole over here! ” Not just Maths, by dim-wittedness in Science and Social Sciences was glaring. I would never say I felt jubilant at the scornful glance of my mom and dad each time I would turn up with a poor grades paper, but I somehow lost the interest to continue with something I didn’t enjoy at all. I fared relatively well in literature, especially the history of South American literature attracted my curious nature of exploring the unknown.
In a sense, I enjoyed that subject. But again, I used to be left with no plausible explanation why I never got a respectable grade in literature too. One day when I was feeling rather dejected during the recess as I made to the playing arena, Jonathon, the closest pal I had, came up to me looking very cheerful, “Hey don’t feel bad, you get me right? ” “I think you’d love this! ”, and he handed over to me a ticket for the much discussed soccer friendly between the Argentine National team and the USA National team at the Rose Bowl at Pasadena. “What do you feel I should try this now, giving up my studies?
”, I asked him impassively as I was not feeling like ‘wasting’ my time in a soccer friendly. “Hey buddy go and enjoy yourself.. you’re an academic failure already! So don’t worry”, he winked at me and ran off to the school building. “Hey Johnny are you coming with me? ”, I yelled. But he was nowhere to be seen. The following morning I kept quiet at the breakfast table. Mom felt curious as I used to chitchat a lot with her, “Is everything ok, honey? ” I just nodded and said to her that I was to go to the soccer friendly at Pasadena. Hearing this, she stared at me with a fixed, a touch bemused expression hovering on her face.
“How long have you been into soccer? Never heard that, eh? ” Yeah she was right. Maybe I was just thinking about an escape route into a different world I could relate myself to more wholeheartedly. I assured her that I won’t be neglecting my studies and she just chuckled. When I got into the stadium, I felt rather odd because of my ignorance of what soccer mania can be like! Thousands of Argentine supporters, all wearing the famous blue, and all waving their National Flag, were chanting “Diego, Diego” in a rapture. Instantly I felt pumped up. I could recall Johnny’s expression when he handed over to me the ticket and told me to enjoy myself.
Diego Maradona, the indisputable soccer legend, was about to mesmerize the crowd and there was I – a failure looking for something he could believe in life… The next few months after that evening passed on the ecstatic wings of my newfound passion – soccer. I almost pleaded to mom and dad to get myself enrolled in one of our local soccer clubs. Seeing my desperation, they somehow put their faith on me and on the Holy Lord that their son would be able to live happily, if not successfully, in his new world of dreams. The first day at the training camp was indeed eventful.
I befriended boys of my own age. Mr. Nielsen was our coach-cum-trainer. He introduced me with other trainees and staffs. I got on well with everyone. One day when dad asked me in a rather worried voice, “Do you feel like going to the camp every alternate day, or is it just for the sake of going? ”, I could instantly recognize what he meant. “Sure dad, this is some place where I won’t mind too much being jeered at…” A few years later, as I am recounting the story now, I am country’s one of the most priced soccer players awaiting an overseas contract for Barcelona FC, Spain.
I am still in touch with my close pals, especially Jonathon… No I don’t feel any regret for what I thought as my academic failure. At the same time, I never really had to put those school days behind me because I knew all too well that it would happen. Now as I sometimes ponder over those days during leisure time, the only thing that occurs to my mind is the face of Miss Dickenson…indeed I lost to win.
References Cohan, Steven, and Linda M. Shires. Telling Stories: A Theoretical Analysis of Narrative Fiction. Kentucky: Routledge, 1988.
University/College: University of Chicago
Type of paper: Thesis/Dissertation Chapter
Date: 26 November 2016
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