· Judging a contest like this is, of course, subjective, especially with the range of content and styles of writing students submitted. But we based our criteria on the types of personal narrative · After they submit their essays, students should receive an email from The New York Times with the subject heading “Thank you for your submission to our Personal Narrative Contest, · Personal Narrative Writing Contest Update, Jan. The winners of our contest have been announced! Write a short, powerful story about a
In October, new york times personal narrative contest, we invited students to submit short, powerful stories about meaningful life experiences for our second annual personal narrative writing contest, new york times personal narrative contest. Three months, 60 judges and nearly 9, entries later, we have selected seven winners, as well as additional finalists, that stood out for their superb storytelling, moving messages and artistic use of language.
Below, we are publishing the seven new york times personal narrative contest narratives in full. Scroll to the bottom of this post to see the names of all the students we are honoring — seven winners, 13 runners-up, 22 honorable mentions and 95 more Round 4 finalists. Congratulations to all of our finalists, and thank you to everyone who participated!
Note to students: We have published the names, ages and schools of students from whom we have received permission to do so. If you would like yours published, new york times personal narrative contest, please write to us at LNFeedback nytimes. Seated in opposing rows, we faced each other like child soldiers, armed only with well-prepared notes and hastily scribbled marginalia. With determination like ours, there was no chance of defeat.
A boy who barely stood four feet tall spoke first, using words bigger than his body. Statistically speaking … hypothetically … nevertheless.
Staring into an imaginary camera above Mrs. Soon after his opening argument, new york times personal narrative contest, I took the floor. Although my opponent smiled as she shook my hand, her parting palm squeeze felt vaguely threatening. Brushing it off, I banished all fear of embarrassment and spoke.
I was a pied piper, enticing listeners with a melody of facts and statistics. Her words were a blanket of thorns. Worse than her words was the absolute conviction she spoke with; not a drop of uncertainty, nor an ounce of regret.
I had never spoken with such certitude in my life. Hutchinson reminded me, leaning in with anticipation as if expecting me to lunge at Emma in a burst of outrage. I just wanted to say something.
But that would have been an act of desperation, inviting a fate worse than death — humiliation. I had spent my life dissociating myself from my lineage whenever convenient.
With friends and peers, I blended in as an all-American Southerner who liked sweet tea and Chick-fil-A, new york times personal narrative contest.
With family, I pretended to understand sentences spoken through incomprehensible Caribbean accents and dug my nails into my palms trying not to cough up ginger beer. A cultural chameleon, I lived by way of camouflaging myself to my environment. But when one of my masquerades came under attack, which hat did I wear to speak? Would I even speak at all? Being first-generation was something I was proud of, but as I returned to my seat having said nothing in my defense, I realized that was just a lie I told myself.
I treated my heritage like contraband, to be hidden and hopefully never revealed at the wrong moment. For that, I was ashamed not of my identity, but of myself. Hutchinson declare my team the winner, and was only alerted by my teammates shaking my shoulders and chanting in celebration.
Deepening my state of melancholy, I realized no one else was thinking what I was. To me, they were salt in a wound. We stepped in front of the desks to shake the hands of the other team. My opponent shook my hand for the second time that afternoon, just as energetically as before.
When the phone finally stopped ringing and the house lay still with grief, I filled my home with the aroma of flaky pie crust and sweet peaches to mask the scent of worry that still lingered.
The weekend after the diagnosis, Mom had copied and pasted the same text to each concerned relative, old friend and college roommate: Jay was diagnosed with a type of early-onset dementia in April, new york times personal narrative contest. We had an appointment with a neurologist in Houston last week. We are going back in a few weeks for more information.
Then Mom put down the phone, rubbed her forehead, and suggested that we go for a drive. Now in our kitchen, peach juice seeped through the cardboard box onto the counter.
I rinsed a ripe new york times personal narrative contest under the sink and lifted the fruit to my lips. Juice dribbled down my chin to my arm. The sweet smell diffused into the living room and pulled Dad away from the new york times personal narrative contest reruns on TV. You got peaches? I showed him how new york times personal narrative contest peel the skin off the fleshy fruit, run the blade around the seed, and loosen the peach halves to cut the juicy fruit.
As I made pie dough, he asked questions: How long does it take to bake? How much sugar? Are you adding almond extract? How many peaches? What should I do with the seeds? I combined our efforts with a lattice topping over the bed of peaches, and then signaled Dad to open the oven. Standing there at the counter, showing him how to slice and measure and mix in a calm, firm voice, I suddenly felt grown up. The summer had reversed our roles; now, I was the adult, wincing as the blade neared his fingers.
Mom worked through quarantine, so I stayed home and cooked his dinner, washed his T-shirts and helped him make phone calls. I stayed up late thinking about him and anxiously monitored him like an overbearing caretaker.
I decided then that I would be grateful for just four more years with Dad, enough for him to see me become an adult for real. Once the pie crust shone golden through the tinted oven door, we gathered on the patio new york times personal narrative contest eat and watch the birds.
To me, there was nothing better than feeling the water fill my ears and fold over my head until my feet scraped the concrete bottom. The feeling of disappearing. Through the lenses of my pink-tinted goggles, underwater was magical. When it got dark, the lights on the sides of the pool would turn on, dim yellow circles to guide swimmers to the walls. They always reminded me of the glowing eyes of deadly sea dragons, able to devour anyone even grown-up fourth-grade teachers in one bite. Even better, though, was the sound.
In the open air, sound was too insistent. But beneath the surface, things were quiet. The sounds that used to overwhelm me lost all their power, garbled and muffled.
They intermingled with the sloshing of the water and the gentle blub-blub of air bubbles escaping my nose. It was not random, all the noises worked together to new york times personal narrative contest a symphony. Perhaps the best thing about the bottom of a swimming pool, though, was that at the bottom of a swimming pool, I was alone. They were all far, far away up on the surface. It was only me. Just me. I used to wish I could live underwater.
But once, when I came up for air, I spotted a girl my age at the other side of the pool. We locked eyes before I went back under, just for a second. She actually wanted to talk to me. She wanted to be friends. So we talked. And I found out that she liked Pokémon and Warrior Cats just like I did, new york times personal narrative contest. She never once mentioned the scabs on my knees or the gaps between my teeth. She just laughed and said that she liked spending time with me.
I liked spending time with her, too. I really did. How could I when there was so much waiting for me on the surface? I grasp my underwear and pull them down, watching the white fabric land around my feet. I am naked; exposed. I look across the room at the Pink Paper Gown, walk over, and unfold its perfect symmetry. I wrap it around my cold body and tie the plastic string around my waist.
I sit on the side of the chair with two stirrups extending from the end, my feet resting on the cold wooden floor. For a moment, I wonder: How many other women have had to wear the Pink Paper Gown? The short, kind doctor comes in and asks me to lay down, new york times personal narrative contest. Though hesitant, I follow her directions; she is, in fact, the first person I ever saw in this world. She delivered me 17 years before.
The last time she saw me, I was pure, innocent, unaware; my blue, childish eyes never having seen the harsh truths of this world. Now, I am her patient, for reasons I am horrified to admit. The doctor walks to the end of the chair.
One blue glove at a time, she prepares.
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· Personal Narrative Writing Contest Update, Jan. The winners of our contest have been announced! Write a short, powerful story about a · Judging a contest like this is, of course, subjective, especially with the range of content and styles of writing students submitted. But we based our criteria on the types of personal narrative · After they submit their essays, students should receive an email from The New York Times with the subject heading “Thank you for your submission to our Personal Narrative Contest,
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