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Three Dwight Beach Middle School students have emerged as local winners in the 55th annual America & Me Essay Contest, sponsored by Farm Bureau Insurance. Madison McGregor, Emma Busch, and Anastassia Moser clinched the top three spots, respectively. As the school’s first-place winner, Madison’s name will also be engraved on a plaque for permanent display in the school.
Madison's first-place essay now progresses to the state-level competition. Should Madison’s essay rank among the top ten in Michigan, she will receive a plaque, a medallion, and a cash award of $1,055. Farm Bureau Insurance will also present each of the top ten statewide schools with a $1,055 check and an additional $555 if a Farm Bureau Insurance agent sponsored the school.
The America & Me Essay Contest, now in its fifty-fifth year, has encouraged thousands of Michigan's eighth-grade students to delve into the theme "My Personal Michigan Hero," prompting reflections on personal inspirations and the broader societal values they embody. Several thousand eighth-grade students from nearly 200 schools across the state underscores the contest's broad appeal and its role in promoting literacy and critical thinking among young learners.
The contest's culminating event, set for May 29, 2024, in Lansing, will bring together the top ten finalists and their educators for a day of recognition and celebration.
Started in 1968 and open to all Michigan eighth-grade students, the America & Me Essay Contest encourages Michigan youngsters to explore the greatness of America and its people.
Here are Emma’s and Anastassia’s essays:
*****
Sewing Teacher
By Anastasia Moser
Hero: Wanting to be like someone or have a little bit of them in you.
When I was eight I met my sewing teacher for the very first time. I remember driving there in the car for almost one hour, getting more nervous with every word the GPS muttered. The car finally stopped. I jumped out feeling the warm sun beaming down on me. Almost immediately, I was greeted with the sweet scent of morning dew wandering in the air and around the trees. We were in a tiny Pueblo. My eyes gazed upon the different stone buildings all lined up together. They wandered from corner to corner, jumping from monument to monument, until they finally fell upon where my mom was walking to. There were two massive wooden doors towering over me. My mom clicked the bell on the side and I heard the buzz for three seconds, then off. Nothing. We waited for a couple of minutes until suddenly a slow, loud, creaking sound echoed through the air and the door opened. I first noticed her face beaming down smiling at me with a twinkle in her eyes. Then I noticed her beautiful flowing dress hitting the floor, and then I noticed her arm. She was holding it with her other hand and was not moving it. That’s when I realized her arm was paralyzed. At first I was confused, wondering how she would sew with one hand but she never brought up the topic. We walked through the front doors and she guided me into a sunlit room of people.
Weeks went by where I was constantly surprised and astonished by everything I saw her do and the way she did it. The ways she glided down the corridors as if there wasn’t a single worry in the world. And the way she could make every obstacle seem like a pebble in the road. Day by day I gazed at her and how she would sew as if no one was watching, creating dress after dress, shirt after shirt, beautiful art pieces. All with one hand.
I was only eight when I started while most of the others were above ten, but I can still remember the first skirt she taught me how to make. The first stitch I ripped the fabric, the second was crooked, and the third she watched me as the fabric gracefully slid across the machine and finished… with the thread getting tangled. She just smiled, looked at me and said “your focus and stitches were incredible.” She took a photo, and went to help another person while I kept practicing. She wasn’t just creating clothing, she created memories and enlightened many more than just myself. She would never let others' differences get in the way of what they loved to do. She is the reason that so many people loved what they did, no matter what it was.
Once covid hit everyone had to do the usual and wear a mask, wash their hands, and much more. Although everyone got tired of wearing an excruciating mask, no one could ever get tired of walking through those doors. Everyone stayed and we even had our first gallery show coming up, when the day of the gallery show finally arrived everyone was excited and bursting with bottled up energy. People started scurrying through the doors and I could feel the eyes of all the people fall on the skirt I had made. A lady walked up to me and asked if my skirt was for sale. I looked back at my sewing teacher. She stared back at me with the same twinkle in her eyes as when we first met, smiling. Once the gallery was over and all the people had left, she came up to me and said “Once you become a famous designer I'll be here if you ever need a mentor.” She was special that way. Make you feel like the only person in the world, like all your hard work was worth it. As if all the mistakes I had made were just small bumps in the road.
I think of my hero every so often. I think of how she faced every obstacle head on, how she inspired all of those around her, but most of all I think of how she made dreams come true. She was like the fairy godmother from Cinderella. Only she didn't have magic and she couldn’t turn pumpkins into carriages. She was a kind, courageous, and independent person that had fingers pricked with needles. Although she could make dream dresses and turn almost anything into a ball gown, She didn’t just teach people how to sew, she taught them how to be courageous and how there is more that goes on underneath the surface than above. When you walked through those massive wooden doors it felt like home. I saw her in an interview and I thought how special it was to have known her. Someone who has touched so many lives yet had the time to reach mine.
*****
My Mom, My hero
By Emma Victoria Busch
“Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary” -Gerard Way
I remember being a little kid who always managed to get lost at Target. Running away from my mom’s warm glow into the darker aisles of that big store, or at least it looked big then. Searching, scanning, each and every corner of the toy aisles looking for Monster High dolls or some sort of unicorn-themed paraphernalia, always wanting every single thing my short arms could grasp. After a while, I’d get tired of window shopping toys and I’d begin to feel worried. Worried that my mom would never find me in this humongous building, worried that maybe I’d get wrapped up in clothes, a never ending jungle of sleeves grabbing at my hair, worried that I was lost; a wandering child alone in a tiled desert. Luckily, I wasn’t lost for long. My mom always managed to find me. She’d either find me with my arms tightly wound around a boxed toy, or maybe she’d find me wandering the fluorescent-lit food aisle; even on the rare occasion, stuck in a clothing rack. And no matter where I get lost now, at Target, or in life, my mom is always there to find me. My mom, my hero.
My mom is a huge inspiration for me, especially in the way she treats other people. She’s very caring, and I admire that a lot. On hot summer days when the air is humid and thick, my mom will stop her car and help turtles cross the road. When I scrape a knee on rough concrete, my mom insists she cleans the cut. When I complain about something, my mom will go to every length to fix whatever is wrong. And In 2014, when my Grandma Jane fell ill, my mom was there for her.
My Grandma had congestive heart failure and diabetes, and her condition would only worsen from here. My mom drove one hour every Sunday to Farmington Hills and bought groceries to bring to my grandma's retirement home where my grandparents lived. For over a year, she had been by my grandma's side even though it hurt to see her forget. Her keys, her phone, even her own granddaughter, me. Even with the heartbreak my mom experienced slowly watching her moms once creative and intelligent mind become now desolate, uninhabited by the warm spark it once contained; my mom continued to stay strong for everyone.
As the year went by and things started to look worse, my mom stayed by my grandma's side even with the tubes that coiled her arms, the fog that clouded her mind, and the heart that refused to beat. One day, Grandma Jane died. I didn’t understand what happened, I was only five. I was lost, confused, a child can only understand so much. My mom was wracked with grief but was always there to reassure me that my grandma was in a better place now. “She’s free of pain now.” I didn’t understand what happened at the time, but hearing that my grandma was at peace, free of her oxygen tube prison, that made me feel better.
As I’ve grown up, I realize how my mom looks out for me and other people. My mom has always made me feel loved and safe, and I know my Grandma Jane felt it too. My mom is a lighthouse, guiding lost boats back to the comfort of a shore. My mom is a fireplace, keeping people safe in the comfort of her warm glow. My mom is a hero, she may not seem extraordinary, but the way she makes people feel is cared for and loved; and that is everything.
