Wednesday, January 6, 2016 // The Statement
7C
ILLUSTRATION BY EMILIE FARRUGIA
Personal Statement: I know all the word’s to Eminem’s ‘Lose Yourself’
H
igh school. For me, it wasn’t anything that I
thought it was supposed to be. Wasn’t it supposed
to be filled with rites of passage? At the very least
there were supposed to be one or two moments of intense
experience from which I could learn. There were supposed
to be moments and experiences, times and transitions. I
was supposed to fight and kiss and abuse and destroy and
build and rebuild. I was supposed to start something —
tangible or intangible. Right? I was supposed to leave high
school in preparation for college or for the supposed “real
world.”
But, alas. I attended a private, Catholic all-girls school
in Buffalo, New York. It has maintained the title of “Best
Private School Education” in the area for over a decade. It’s
competitive, and it’s tough. I kept good grades throughout
high school, and I studied voraciously for the SAT and ACT.
I would need them to get into a far, far away college, spe-
cifically New York University (this story does eventually
stop being so incredibly cliché). I worked the soundboard
for every school musical. I played piano in the orchestra. I
was co-president of my school’s Mock Trial team. I spent
most winter weekends memorizing fake affidavits or open-
ing statements for the competitive trials. I played soccer
for two years before being promptly cut from the team my
junior year. I ran cross country and track for the remainder
of high school. Both cross country and track wanted more
participants, so I joined them. Of course, I was, stereotypi-
cally, very unathletic.
My average week held incredible structure: I went to
school, then I attended one of my various extracurricular
activities. I arrived home in the family minivan around six
or seven, ate dinner, did my homework and practiced the
piano if I had time. My weekends were consumed by Mock
Trial, cross country, homework and, luckily, friends. On
the weekends, my six closest friends and I would meet at
our favorite restaurant, Red Robin, order something Angus
and then sneak out extra steak fries into the movie theater
across the street.
I remember being very frustrated. But it was a quiet frus-
tration, one that rarely leaked out of my mind and one that I
myself barely understood. I think it was just that I had read
too many J.D. Salinger books, seen too many John Hughes
movies and listened to far too much bad ’80s music. I would
go on long drives in my little, white Honda Civic. I thought
I was edging on artistic to drive with no destination. With
my music blaring, I thought it was romantic of me to drive
45 minutes away to a popular hiking spot at the edge of
Buffalo. I — ever so dramatically — felt as though, if I drove
fast or far enough, I’d leave my suburban boredom behind.
I was feeding the angst that was constantly probing my
mind. The angst was the same as that self-deprecating
mindset that told me my seemingly ordinary day-to-day
life had to be better. I had strange expectations for myself
that even I did not yet understand. I craved something cre-
ative. I wanted an artistic outlet of some sort. Fuck, I think
I just wanted to feel something, or understand something
that couldn’t be found between the pages of my AP Ameri-
can History textbook.
So, all this confusion, frustration, anxiety, irritation
and obsessive behavior had to materialize into something.
It eventually did, my senior year, in a particularly strange
form. This pent-up “I think I’m artistic or creative but I
don’t know how to be or what that even means” feeling was
released with the help of Detroit’s own number one white
rapper, Eminem.
I’m no Eminem aficionado. I mean, I support and respect
his art. I do think he is a phenomenal rapper. His rhymes
are clever, and his tone is usually so aggressive that it can
be undeniably entertaining. Sometime in the summer lead-
ing up to my senior year of high school, I found the piano
composition for Eminem’s biggest hit, “Lose Yourself,” on
an online sheet music website. I downloaded it, learned
the piece and its lyrics one lazy summer day, and let the
knowledge rest in my mind palace. I’d play it upon my lit-
tle sister’s request or for the fun of it with friends. Music
brings people together — even shitty raps. So, I don’t want
any of that “what was your taste” judgment. We’re all on
separate sonic journeys. And it took me a while to find good
rap music.
I performed Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” in my school’s
talent show my senior year of high school. I told my sis-
ter and my six friends what I was doing, but on the sign-
up sheet I simply wrote, “Mimi Zak performance.” I had
to hide my piece from the teachers in charge of the event.
Chalk full of expletives and ‘inappropriate’ content, “Lose
Yourself” would never make it past their strict eyes. And
so I kept it quiet. It wasn’t until 20 minutes before my per-
formance, when one of the administrators finally asked me
what I would be performing, that I was reprimanded.
“You can’t perform that. Who told you that you could
perform that piece? I can’t allow you to perform that piece.”
But I didn’t listen. I knew there was not enough time
for this one particularly vapid woman to stand between
me and what I thought was going to be the greatest per-
formance of the school talent show. I went on to perform
the piece. I sang the chorus and rapped the rest. I played
perfectly. Halfway through the performance, the micro-
phone fell off the stand. And no one could hear what I was
saying, but that was OK. I didn’t need them to hear about
Eminem’s dark Detroit struggle. I think it was important to
me that I actually just did it.
At the time, I didn’t know why I performed “Lose Your-
self” as a solo, acoustic performance at my private, all-girls
Catholic school my senior year of high school. But when I
retrospectively analyze my former situation, this was just
part of my self-actualization process. My life could be dif-
ferent and artistic and romantic. I could be unordinary.
Banality wasn’t my reality — it was just the demon that my
self-doubts manifested themselves into.
I just wish I picked a different song. Mimi, really, you
could have picked any other song.
by Amelia Zak, Daily Arts Writer