the essay tutor "What happened?" my sister first asked when we came home. "Was she mean?" My eyes were still teary-eyed. My face was red. I put my hands to my face. I took a deep breath and sniffled again. I had not want to have my personal essay read. The words on paper were simply words and were not meant to be manipulated again, but I had to finally acquiesce to my parents' demands. They wanted me to see a person who would "help me". Hours before, I had arrived at a office park (after telling my mother that she did not know how to follow directions) slightly dismayed that I would be spending part of the first day of Thanksigiving vacation in a stuffy office. My mother and I had walked up the stairs to suite A to meet with a person who would "help". We sat in the waiting room. My hands were sweaty as I tried to entertain myself with reading last year's Entertainment Weekly and an even older issue of Reader's Digest. I was nervous. The eerie atmosphere of robotic secretaries (we could not speak to an actual person to tell them we were here) was not helpful. Reading someone's essay is much like reading someone's soul. Then a thought crossed my mind. Would I finish this particular event like how other events that I had first opposed? Hopefully not. Finally, she arrived. She began to read my essay, "It was not alive when I was first born..." I nodded and agreed throughout the comments. My mother sat next to me and nodded as well. Then suddenly uncontrollably my eyes started to water and my nose began to drip. Hold it back, I thought to myself. Hold it back. I remember that as a sophomore in high school I had undertaken the burden of AP European history. My essays on the Black Death and Charles VII had only received mediocre marks. I could do better. Finally, the teacher assigned a take-home essay on the Sun King, Louis XVI. Here was my turn to actually improve my grade. I worked on the essay for several days and finally bought it to peer tutoring, a service offered by the school which could most likely improve my essay. I had never been to peer tutoring, and I was disoriented by the masses of students seeking help when I first went inside the small room. "Hello there," a peer tutor smiled. "How may I help you?" "Yes, I would like to have someone look at my essay," I replied. "For AP European history." A peer tutor got up and went over to help me. We sat at a round table. I nodded while the peer tutor made comments. Here and there, the peer tutor made some marks. Unknowingly, my eyes began to water again. My nose began to fill itself. Yes, I know my essay needs some of that. More of that too. And that. Yes. Uh huh. More nods. Sniffle. Watch the drop of water roll down my face. "Are you okay?" the peer tutor asked as she got some tissue. "The essay just needs some..." And there I was again on the couch. I now clutched pieces of tissue as I tried to keep my hands occupied. The woman across from me, the one trying to help me write the essay, had asked me a question, "What caused you to be upset?" I did not know the answer. So I frantically looked at my mother. She did not know either. Tears rolled down my face due to some unseen cause. Why are you crying? I did not know the answer. I looked at my mother again. Still she did not know. She looked at my oddly. Then finally said, "I'll go outside and wait for you." I watched her get up and close the door behind her. This word essay was only a five letter word. My cheeks were wet with sudden tears. "You are a very insightful and bright young lady," the woman said. "Do you know what insightful means?" Yes, I nodded my head. I could not speak. I was hyperventilating. Still I did not know the cause of the sudden fear or sorrow that bought upon the drops of tears now rolling down my face. The woman kept looking at me. "You just melted in front of me ten minutes ago and I do not know why. The tears don't tell me anything. These feelings that you are encountering can be much more in depth than what you have here in the essay I am reading. They want to get to know who you are, Jennifer." I nodded my head again. The tissues that I clutched in my hands were now shreds. I still did not know why I was crying although I had said that "fear of people" had induced to me to do so. I cry at injustice. I cry at loss. I cry at discrimination. However, I still did not know the real reason why I cried at essays. I was in a trivial situation. It was too real and yet at the same time the woman called it "real". "Now the emotions that you just felt put on paper can show the person who you are," the woman continued. Show the person who I am, is it? Perhaps, I shall do that. Tears still formed in my eyes as I was finally excused from the office. I never knew the reason why I cried, but perhaps not knowing will show the person that I am. • bio home • • back to home •