DAVID DONNANTUONO

When I was in middle school, I found my way into Project Arrow, the so-called gifted program for young students who were seen as having distinguished intellectual capabilities. In reality, it was a way for the school to remove about thirty eleven year-olds from the rest of their peers for three years, inadvertently tattooing the “P.A.” label across our foreheads. All of my core classes were taken with this small cohort throughout middle school, and the isolation became more and more conspicuous as these years wore on. So, when my parents floated the idea of going to the local private high school—as opposed to the massive public high school my brother attended and I had always planned on attending—I was strangely intrigued. I had gone to public school all my life and only knew of about two or three of my middle school peers considering this option, yet it was this very reality that may have ultimately pushed me toward my final decision. I had a chance to hit the reset button and spurn the years of perceived seclusion. After shadowing a freshman and deliberating as seriously as a fourteen year-old can, I opted for the clean slate.

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Despite my disillusionment during my years in P.A., the rigor with which we were taught certain subjects at a young age will forever stick with me. The subject which resonated the most with me was English. My seventh and eighth grade English teacher, Mrs. Smith, was known to be a relentless woman with no qualms about crushing the souls of her adolescent subjects. Thus, as my P.A. crew entered our second year together, we were justifiably daunted. As those two years wore on, the reality of her demeanor became more and more clear. She was not a devil teacher, she simply sought to instill in us skills that few students ever get the chance to procure and refine. Each year started with memorizing all common pronouns, discerning which were objective, which were nominative, which were possessive, and the proper uses for each. By the end of eighth grade we could all diagram a compound-complex sentence with ease and had spent dozens of hours writing formal text and dozens more reading everything from Hamlet to Heart of Darkness. Though I still had the temperament and concerns of a kid, Mrs. Smith provided a template that could subsequently be filled with any ideas I developed as I grew up.

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With these rather untested abilities, I entered my new environment with an open mind, ready to immerse myself in whatever Catholic high school had to throw my way. The religion classes were certainly new to me, and—particularly in regards to topics of morality—these courses were actually quite compelling. However, my greatest grievance by the time I was an upperclassman was that—despite the discussions of these classes being about extremely contentious issues—there was no openness for real discourse. Some of the teachers would simply teach us what to think, and never considered the questions of how and why we should think that. If the Church declared something decisively, it was not up for discussion… and if the Church changed its mind, then this new stance is now what we should think about it. I vividly remember giving a presentation alongside a friend about stem cell research, and by the end of it, the class applauded us and peppered us with questions about this rarely discussed topic. My religion teacher was none too pleased. Our having acknowledged possible justifications and gains that could be made through this research seemed to have gone against a core principle of the school: we were deviating from the one-sided outlook which was supposed to be ingrained in us. On top of such experiences, the unanimity of perspective at a school like mine shaped my passion for compound discourse. Many of my closest friends have been in this same sort of environment throughout their lives, and it has been a growing cognizance of my own bubble’s existence that has caused me to pursue a broader perspective. It is for this very reason that my repurposing tackles the issue of diluted and biased media, as I feel that such a phenomenon only perpetuates the existence of such isolated perspectives to the detriment of our society as a whole.

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I now write as a way to aggregate and relieve myself of some of the mess going on in my mind. It takes very little provocation to set my mind racing, and it seems like every day I find myself caught up mentally on an idea or incident. Nobody (including myself) wants to listen to another person project every one of their thoughts out loud in the hopes that someone will care, but who wants to be stuck alone with everything they've been contemplating? The pen, keyboard, and page are always there to listen. At the same time, I find my own ideas to be far from static and in some ways elusive. If it weren’t for writing, an idea I had a week ago might escape me if I don’t make it tangible in time.

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Finally, on a far more egocentric note, I feel like writing is proof of my own brilliance. I don’t mean that in a conceited way at all; I would never hand someone a piece I’ve written and say “here’s some proof of my brilliance. Enjoy!” I mean it in a much more introspective way. When I have an idea float through my mental disarray and feel compelled to write about it (whether for personal or academic reasons), it’s extremely rewarding to feel that I’ve now articulated my conviction thoroughly and convincingly. Writing is far and away the most effective means to turn a decent idea into a compelling explanation. Trying to verbally argue with someone doesn’t even come close. For me, the personal fulfillment of putting thoughts on the page is the ice cream, any further audience or recognition are only toppings on the sundae.