Women’s day essay competition.

On April 6, 2018, the Math & Writing Center organized an essay competition dedicated to Women’s Day. The participants wrote essays on the prompt “Write about a woman who inspires you”. The first place was awarded to Margo Sargsyan, a 3rd year student from the English & Communications program, and the second place went to Sona Baldryan, a 4th year student from the Business program. Nvard Melkonyan and Laura Hovakimyan, 2nd year students from the English & Communications program, were awarded the third place. The first winner was awarded with a Certificate and a prize; the other winners received certificates.

Below Margo Sargsyan’s, the first winner’s essay is presented.

                                                                    The Story of Ma

        I would like to see her writing. Every time Ma tells me how much she liked to write about the things that interested her, things that were far and near, things that mattered, I become more interested in what it feels like to write without constraints when you are in a constraint. The society pushes you from every side, but that does not hamper you from expressing what you think. You do, of course, conceal yourself in your ideas in your diary. But your ideas belong to you, and no one can take them away as they live and flourish in your mind. Ma used to write a lot, but now she does not.

        I would like to see her speaking. Every time she goes into detail about the stories of her life, I feel as if I have experienced them myself. Those beautiful, attractive, adventurous, and exciting stories live and fly and reach other people when Ma tells them. But she does speak; she murmurs. Those soft particles of sound come from the depths of her soul, from the secret places she used to hide her stories in.

       I would like to see her reading. Every time I tell her I have finished a book, she answers with the analysis of all its characters, leaving me completely speechless about how she remembers them, and talks about them as if she has finished that book recently. But she doesn’t read anymore; she recalls those heroes from her memory as if they were her lovely friends, accompanying her long journey to that very point of her life, when she reads me like a book.

        I would like to see her listening. Every time we have a conversation, I think she is listening to me, when, in fact, her hearing sensation is wondering somewhere else. The words of my story transfer her to a place she thinks she has visited once and she mentally revives all the emotions she has experienced in that place. Sometimes I interrupt her “mediation,” thinking that I am speaking to myself. I regret that I have interrupted her so many times, bringing her back to her new reality where she does not listen anymore, but pretends and travels to the memories of her past reality.

        I would like to see her… maybe seeing. Every time I see how helpless she is when she asks for assistance to make a step, I get angry. Why has this happened to her? Why did her delightful life have to stop? I experience her loss of light as she does when asking for a cup of water or when telling me she remembers me only when I was five. But she never, ever, ever lets herself down. Her inner hidden motivation still makes her move and live. Her new thoughts and ideas, her new words and memories, her new understanding of life shows me that life is possible and it is, indeed, possible to live when you have lost the way of it, when you walk in the dark and eat in the dark and laugh and cry and pardon in the dark; those who have sinned but were privileged to witness their sins. Her inner light became the compass of her life. She lives to experience the world she stopped seeing a long time ago. She lives to prove that it is possible, it is possible to continue the struggle with life.

        I would like to call her Grandma, but Ma is sufficient. It is short and sweet and full of warm feelings, invaluable touches of hands and lost looks of eyes that accompany me since childhood and save me from the cruelty of life she experienced and felt, but survived.

        I would like to be like Ma.

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