Undergraduate / My brother hated school; Boston College ; Experience affecting perception [3]

School Hate

My brother hated school. He was frustrated with it, just as his peers and teachers were with him. He had a peculiar temper; the kind that made you feel sympathy and anger at the same time. Ultimately, his inability to learn in school hastened negative behavior at home, and for that I resented him. My brother, Abel, and I are 18 months apart, but throughout our childhood, he felt like a stranger to me.

One day when we came home from middle school and my mother sat him down to complete his math homework, a burst of outrage steamed from the dining room table. From my room, I could hear the tearing of the paper, the rigid knock of the chair hitting the hardwood floor, other objects being thrown at the walls, and the helpless, frustrated cry that came from my brother. I dared to walk out into the hall and into the dining room; I was scared. My parents were trying to console him and reassured him that his school-related frustrations were not his fault. I grabbed the torn up, 6th grade math worksheet, and saw the simple multiplication and addition problems scribbled over with pen leaks and frustration. "This is why I'm always bullied", he said.

My brother is, and always has been different. As the years passed, I noticed how his perception of the world; his stubborn yet distinct ways of learning, but his fascinating sense of compassion and interest in helping others, has ultimately affected mine. His clamorous temper tantrums, and his ongoing struggle with academics have diversified my family and has led me to accept every individual in my life, build strong relationships, and help others.

Looking back on Abel's hindrance, and considering the multitude of personalities, faces, skin colors, beliefs, and struggles that I have experienced through community service and having a racially diverse background, I understand his inabilities and focus on his positive character traits. Now, if I were to go back to that moment of outrage that had angered me as a 10 year-old, my heart would feel heavy; I would be saddened by his destructive behavior manifesting insecurity and hopelessness, and I would hug him and embrace his imperfections, like a true family member would.

Abel has made me a more diverse individual and has driven me to help others in my school and community. And for that, I thank him.

Undergraduate / Working in surgical units as a volunteer; Common App Essay- Experience [4]

I know it's shorter than 500 words, so there's room to add things. I'd like to know if this says enough about me, considering this is a very detailed experience. Any criticism would be really helpful !!

Thanks!

I felt the heat of the beaming light over my head. The white gloves began to tighten around my skin as I clenched the scissor-shaped pliers as steadily as I could. Steady...steady...

I stood by the monitor in light blue scrubs with a matching hair net and hat; my surgical mask covered my rufescent cheeks. As I continued to grasp the handles, I grew wide-eyed. I sensed drops of blood on my nose--the patient's blood had splattered ferociously. The gallbladder was being lacerated by Dr. Mason, snip by snip. The pliers I held in place were to keep intestinal parts away from the area being cut out. I couldn't see much below me; the incision was only an inch long and tubes with cameras were descending into the patient's stomach.

We were in Chincha, Peru, a town two hours south of Lima that had been virtually decimated by an earthquake in 2007. The Peruvian American Medical Society was on a week-long mission trip to provide medical attention to underdeveloped health care centers in Peru. On July 8th, 2012, 40 volunteer doctors, nurses, and assistants took the bus ride from Lima to La Clinica San Pedro in Chincha. Most of the volunteers came from St. Louis and hardly anyone spoke a word of Spanish. I accompanied the team on this mission after speaking with Dr. Zambrano, the cardiologist and trip coordinator, during my stay in Lima, and was assigned the role as a translator to minimize the language barrier between indigenous patients and American staff.

Throughout the week, I predominantly worked in gastroenterology and surgical units. In using Spanish to comfort and communicate with distressed patients, I immediately felt connected with my roots. I don't have blonde hair or blue eyes; my skin is the color of the patients'. The woman waiting outside of the gastroenterology clinic with her son on her back and her daughter in her arms; the taxi driver who desperately needs his gall bladder removed, and the four-year-old girl with the cleft lip, are all essential reflections of my identity and my motivation to study medicine on a global level. I embraced every interaction; every hand held and every display of appreciation.

The surgery was successful; instruments were put away and the patient was rolled out of the room. As I watched the familiar face exit, I inhaled profoundly; absorbing all of the opportunity awarded to me by the surrounding doctors and the Chinchean people--I smiled with dignity.