My freshman year, I left the farm for boarding school, where I was surrounded by the better-off and the better-educated — the vast majority of whom had heard the word ‘feminism’ before. I began to pick up just what the word meant from my antagonizing English teacher and my incisive friends’ furrowed brows when I described my hometown. Four years of education and weekly argumentative essays taught me the academic jargon. I learned the Latin roots of the word “feminism,” its cognates and its historical consequences.
But the more I read about it in books, and the more I used it in my essays, the more I realized I already knew what it meant. I had already embodied the reality of feminism on the farm. I had lived it. My cow had taught it to me.
优秀英语essay范文第3篇：
“Growing Up”
I’m short. I’m five foot five – well, five foot six if I want to impress someone. If the average height of American men is five foot ten, that means I’m nearly half a foot shorter than the average Joe out there. And then there are the basketball players. My height has always been something that’s set me apart; it’s helped define me. It’s just that as long as I can remember, I haven’t liked the definition very much. Every Sunday in grade school my dad and I would watch ESPN Primetime Football. Playing with friends at home, I always imagined the booming ESPN voice of Chris Berman giving the play-by-play of our street football games. But no matter how well I performed at home with friends, during school recess the stigma of “short kid” stuck with me while choosing teams.
Still concerned as senior year rolled along, I visited a growth specialist. Pacing the exam room in a shaky, elliptical orbit worried, “What if I’ve stopped growing? Will my social status forever be marked by my shortness?” In a grade school dream, I imagined Chris “ESPN” Berman’s voice as he analyzed the fantastic catch I had made for a touchdown when – with a start – the doctor strode in. damp with nervous sweat, I sat quietly with my mom as he showed us the X-ray taken of my hand. The bones in my seventeen-year-old body had matured. I would not grow any more. Whoa. I clenched the steering wheel in frustration as I drove home. What good were my grades and “college transcript” achievements when even my friends poked fun of the short kid? What good was it to pray, or to genuinely live a life of love? No matter how many Taekwondo medals I had won, could I ever be considered truly athletic in a wiry, five foot five frame? I could be dark and handsome, but could I ever be the “tall” in “tall, dark and handsome”? All I wanted was someone special to look up into my eyes; all I wanted was someone to ask, “Could you reach that for me？”
It’s been hard to deal with. I haven’t answered all those questions, but I have learned that height isn’t all it’s made out to be. I ‘d rather be a shorter, compassionate person than a tall tyrant. I can be a giant in so many other ways: intellectually, spiritually and emotionally.
I’ve ironically grown taller from being short. It’s enriched my life. Being short has certainly had its advantages. During elementary school in earthquake-prone California for example, my teachers constantly praised my “duck and cover” skills. The school budget was tight and the desks were so small an occasional limb could always be seen sticking out. Yet Chris Shim, “blessed” in height, always managed to squeeze himself into a compact and safe fetal position. The same quality has paid off in hide-and-go-seek. (I’m the unofficial champion on my block.)
Lincoln once debated with Senator Stephen A. Douglas – a magnificent orator, nationally recognized as the leader of the Democratic Party of 1858… and barely five feet four inches tall. It seems silly, but standing on the floor of the Senate last year I remembered Senator Douglas and imagined
