Application to USC-1998

When I was home for a few days over Christmas I cleaned out my old desk. I found a handful of interesting things but definitely among the most treasured was this, my Freshman applicant essay to U.S.C. that I wrote as a senior in high school.
I have been wondering where I put a copy of this for the longest time fearing that I hadn't saved one, but, here it is. I always remembered being really proud of it and looking at it today it's interesting to see some if my writing traits and patterns forming early on.
My punctuation and spelling are characteristically poor but my phrasing and knack for painting pictures with words are there. I remember thinking that the smoke filled room was a nice touch as well as the brave use of the word "damn." My English teacher at the time encouraged me to try and integrate my involvement and achievements into the "narrative flow" so if it sounds self aggrandizing, well, it IS an applicant essay.
I haven't changed once thing about it, so here it is.


Charles Stephen Pecoraro - Freshman Applicant – Soc. Sec. # xxx-xx-xxxx
E S S A Y
Prompt: Tell us a story which will help us to know you better.
I laid my head down on the piano. “Stop sticking! Can’t you flow?” I was at home, seated at my piano and I was working with a difficult fingering passage in J.S. Bach’s Giga in his Partita no. 1 in B-flat Major, and my fingers just would not obey my efforts to play it properly. I hearkened back to the words of my father, a professional jazz musician.
At the innocent age of nine my father was accompanying his father at funerals, weddings and general Italian celebrations or all kinds. At the weathered old age of seventeen he was touring the East coast with trio’s and quartets and had been in more speakeasies than there are easies to speak. He told me about the time when he had a gig at the Three Deuces in Manhattan, in 1937. This is the tale my father weaved: “Can’t barely see that guitarist, so much damn smoke in this room,” were the fumbled words of a neighborhood patron of the Three Deuces night club, as he sat at the bar across from the band stand. He focused in on the featured soloist. Hardened callouses danced across the strings of his 1932 D’Angelico Excel with a passion untamed and a talent that had been honed on the road for as long as his clouded memory could reach. His father, a legend of the Vaudevillian circuit, had bought the guitar for him in the disorderly and cluttered, but magical, store of John D’Angelico, a mater guitar craftsman who had a never ending passion for perfection in every instrument he sculpted. That night, however, his fingers were beating the fret board into submission and igniting a wildfire that caught everybody’s intrigue. His fellow musicians starred in bewilderment at the sudden rush of divine improvisation that even Charles himself could not believe.
The lesson my father taught me was an inspiration and back at the old eighty-eights, I was trying to encourage myself. I thought of the time when I was a sophomore, brand new on A.S.B. and I had a dream of putting on a swing dance at Troy. I remembered how the reality of the idea was enough to keep me up at nights. I dreamed of all the dancing, all the fun, and best of all, the live jazz orchestra. It was obvious that a genuine swing dance would only be successful if there was an outstanding live jazz orchestra. So I set to work on it. I worked ever chance I could because this was something that I wanted in the worst way. This was my first time doing anything remotely like this so I learned all the rules by inadvertently breaking them first. I remembered when I arrived at the dance: the way everyone was swaying and the way the music crept in through my ears and proceeded right to my feet so that I just could not keep still. I had to dance. But I was so nervous because before my eyes, my dream was alive; it was actually happening. Fantastic things that I had dreamt became a reality and it all materialized because of a passion that I had for this dance. Yet, more importantly, because of the passion I had to bring jazz to my peers so that they could feel the excitement in the music that I hear. Between being A.S.B. President, a member of Troy Tech, principle trumpet in the Jazz, Marching, and Concert bands, three hours of piano practice a night and having the lead in Bugsy Malone, the school’s play, I managed to make it happen.
I envision myself at U.S.C. because of all U.S.C. can do for me and all that I can bring to you. U.S.C. is known internationally for their outstanding music department, and I know that my dream of writing what I have inside of me can become a realization there. I look forward to the excitement of a large school in a large city. With it’s broad base of religious, ethnic and economic groups, there is a rich culture in Los Angeles, particularly at U.S.C. in which one can draw a very deep and thorough education. I am a hard working, innovative, open minded student who is hungry to get a great big bite of his dream. I know that U.S.C. is the college for me to attend because I will create great opportunities for myself there. There is a tangible energy in the air at U.S.C and I want to not only experience it, but I want to help create it.
I suddenly arose from my daydream, wondering how long I had been sitting there with my head on the piano board. The impression on my forehead gave some indication. Having thought all this, I realized that I, like my father, could accomplish anything that I wanted to. I just needed to redouble my efforts and my excitement and I knew that when I saw the results, that would be the greatest reward of all; knowing that I had accomplished an important goal through hard work.

I Walk Briskly

I walk briskly. The elements strike my face. I stare at the sun and I stand outside in a maelstrom.
I greet those whom I pass. I trip not seeing the uneven pavement. I hear the music. I smell the aroma. I taste the abundance. I walk briskly.
I walk briskly and in tempo. I feel the cobble in the street ‘neath my feet. I feel the cashmere of my socks softly ‘gainst my peds. I feel the tightness in my hands after a salty meal.
I hear the chorus of man. The melody rings and clangs, the din of culture. I hear the want, the cries for love, the fear of death, loneliness and public speaking.
I taste the hunger, the desire for the real, the flavour of truth, of depth, of sincerity. The sweetness of concern, the satisfaction of authenticity is all anyone wants but what no one talks about.
I embrace a friend. I feel the sadness in their marrow.

“Oh my friend, I love you. With this embrace I wish to calm your trembling. I wish to soothe your pains. I wish to warm your shivering soul and to apply a cool salve to your burned heart. I wish to make you whole with touch, with embrace; with love that does not begin with, nor do I wish it to end with, me.”

I walk briskly, but it seems not so briskly as when I started walking. I now walk with a sore knee and a pebble in my shoe. I walk, with joy, with hope, but I tend to look at the ground more and check for cracks and chewing gum. I’d like to pick up the pace and walk like I did when I began walking, freer, younger and bolder, but it’s dark out these days and I’m not sure where I am or where I’m going.

I walk, I walk, but I do not walk alone. I walk with those I love. We walk together. And I try and walk in the light.

Authentic

Searching.
Discerning.
Gathering.
Praying.

Piecing.
Inventing.
Applying.
Complying.

Curious.
Dissatisfied.
Hungry.
Faithful.

Human.
Caring.
Relevant.
Authentic.