Silent Assassin

I am the Silent Assassin. Well, that’s the nickname my soccer coach gave me, but it’s pretty fitting. On the soccer field, I weave through tight spaces, thread passes, and stuff my opponents without saying a word. That’s an exaggeration… I shout the occasional “Man on!” or “Turn!” but I’m definitely one of my team’s quieter players.

I’m the quiet, skinny center midfielder, so it always comes as a surprise when I’m selected as captain of my soccer team, even though that’s happened for the last seven years. While I’m not the loudest or the strongest, I’m certainly one of the most tenacious, and I found success as a captain by leading my teammates through actions rather than words.

My quiet tendencies aren’t exclusive to the soccer field; I am also a silent assassin in the classroom. When I was younger, I would carefully plan out exactly what I was going to say and then run through all the possible consequences, just to make sure that my contribution was worthwhile.

This didn’t always work in my favor. In 9th grade, when my English teacher was leading an icebreaker, she called out my name, and my stomach sank. “If you could be famous for one thing, what would it be? 30 seconds. Go.” I wanted to craft an insightful response or a witty joke, but the clock was already ticking. I stood in silence for 10 seconds until I stuttered something trivial. Heart racing, armpits sweating and cheeks flushed, I returned back to my seat while my inner voice scolded me for such a pathetic response.

I realized that the lack of a verbal voice would lead to lost opportunities to express myself, share ideas, and ultimately fulfill my potential so I joined Debate Club. It was perfect. In a public forum debate, I had no choice but to think on my feet during the four-minute rebuttal period. Through debate I was forced to assassinate my opponents with the words that had previously gone to waste as scrapped ideas. With practice, speech has become another arrow in my quiver, empowering me to lead a robotics team and mentor incoming freshmen as a Link Crew Leader.

But sometimes words are insufficient. During my sophomore year, my beloved AP Environmental Science teacher, Mr. Town, developed a brain tumor and announced he would retire at the end of the year. I wanted to express my gratitude to Mr. Town for being the most caring teacher I’ve ever had. I could have given a two-minute personal thank you, but I wanted to do more.

From my previous six years of filmmaking experience, I knew that film had the power to transcend speech, so I decided to create a tribute video for Mr. Town. Over the next three days, I interviewed more than 70 students and 30 staff members about their favorite memories with Mr. Town. On the last day of school, our class gathered to watch the final 30-minute video. As Mr. Town watched the footage, I watched his expression. His eyes, full of joy, were fixed on the screen, and he couldn’t fight back the tears. My heart swelled up and I could feel a lump in the back of my throat. It’s ironic, but my proudest moment in high school was when I made my favorite teacher cry. I had said everything I wanted to say to Mr. Town without saying a single word.

I’ve learned that it’s important to use my voice, but also that silence is a strength and impact is not measured in decibels. I embrace both aspects of my personality and appreciate that these seemingly opposite forces are complementary and interrelated. Silence is powerful. Vocalization is powerful. Now I have the ability to choose.