RNS
Oct 29, 2009
Undergraduate / Common Application Essay (Stanford) - Topic of your Choice (English major) [3]
By the time I entered I entered high school, my parents were rarely home. A struggling business forced them to work six to seven day weeks just to make enough to pay the bills. During this period, my most vivid memories are of being alone in my darkened house, quietly eating something I had prepared in the microwave - usually leftover fast food that my parents would bring from work. Our businesses, two modest Chinese restaurants in local shopping malls, once the crucibles of my parent's hopes and desires, had turned out to be little more than stones around our necks.
Eventually the harrowing stresses of the business began to slowly seep into my family life: my parents, beaten-down and exhausted from their unforgiving 11-hour shifts, began to channel their frustrations at each other. Why didn't you get those supplies? Why didn't you mail out those checks? Even when they weren't fighting, their exhaustion rendered them able to do very little except to silently watch television with glazed, broken eyes. And in their eyes I saw it all - physical fatigue, emotional distress and the vague, crushing realization that there was no end in sight. The tension in the air would at times become unbearably palpable and, despite my parent's assurances that things would be okay, I saw the reality behind their weak smiles. My house grew even darker and more isolated when my parents were in it than when they weren't.
The tenth grade brought major changes in my life. The family business continued to languish and it was decided, after much deliberation, that I would spend more time at the restaurant. I had always helped out at the restaurant, but this time it was different. Now I was vital - we simply couldn't afford to pay anyone else. I began working as a cashier during the week, and nearly all day on weekends, to help support my family. It was a responsibility I initially despised and resisted -- in this time of emotional unrest and confusion, the very last thing I wanted to do was work. Yet, the haunting image of my mother's pleading eyes would not go away and I reluctantly agreed to help.
The most lucid memories I have of early tenth grade are ones of drowning. Not physically, but academically. Trying to balance a chaotic load of schoolwork, which I had arrogantly assumed to be easy, with a demanding work schedule was a new type of challenge I was not equipped to face. Work I found to be tedious and enervating. In school I was weighed down by years of poor, almost nonexistent study habits and no sense of direction. My dad, who only briefly attended a community college and my mom, who didn't go to college at all, could offer me little in the way of advice. Alone, I struggled through the first semester of sophomore year while often questioning what I was trying for - I didn't have an answer. English was the exception - in literature I found not just unparalleled beauty, but what I felt to be divine truth. In the shared experiences of man I developed sympathy and understanding. I became obsessed with the aesthetics of language, the intricate inner workings of a truly great piece of writing deserving to be called art. A visceral, burning desire to create such works was born. Certain writers-Faulkner, Nabokov, and Cormac McCarthy in particular were my inspirations during this period.
Work, however, ended up teaching me more than just how to operate a cash register. After a semester of balancing work and school, I emerged with a new perspective on the world. Seeing exactly what my parents had to endure, the sacrifices they made for me, I began to realize how lucky I actually was. I grew close to my co-workers and got to experience first-hand their tedious day-to-day minimum-wage existences - many of them had nowhere near the same opportunity as I had. It was enlightening to see how education could dictate one's place in society. By the end I realized what I would be squandering if I didn't apply myself, that even if I had less money than my friends I still had incredible opportunities.
It was after this realization that I began to understand that things were not too late. I could escape the clutches of mediocrity, the spiral of apathy and self-pity with the resources that I had. I discovered that years of academic independence, once my greatest weakness, was now my greatest strength. I could do things on my own and carve out my own future - I was free.
I began to define myself. With newfound resolve I decided to push my potential. My grades improved substantially. I took the hardest courses I could. I founded clubs in all the subjects I had genuine interest in. I found myself in multiple positions of leadership - in school newspapers and in Speech and Debate. I found my greatest victory, however, in convincing my parents to let me pursue what had once been just a shadow of a dream, now a shade closer to realization. My major? English.
By the time I entered I entered high school, my parents were rarely home. A struggling business forced them to work six to seven day weeks just to make enough to pay the bills. During this period, my most vivid memories are of being alone in my darkened house, quietly eating something I had prepared in the microwave - usually leftover fast food that my parents would bring from work. Our businesses, two modest Chinese restaurants in local shopping malls, once the crucibles of my parent's hopes and desires, had turned out to be little more than stones around our necks.
Eventually the harrowing stresses of the business began to slowly seep into my family life: my parents, beaten-down and exhausted from their unforgiving 11-hour shifts, began to channel their frustrations at each other. Why didn't you get those supplies? Why didn't you mail out those checks? Even when they weren't fighting, their exhaustion rendered them able to do very little except to silently watch television with glazed, broken eyes. And in their eyes I saw it all - physical fatigue, emotional distress and the vague, crushing realization that there was no end in sight. The tension in the air would at times become unbearably palpable and, despite my parent's assurances that things would be okay, I saw the reality behind their weak smiles. My house grew even darker and more isolated when my parents were in it than when they weren't.
The tenth grade brought major changes in my life. The family business continued to languish and it was decided, after much deliberation, that I would spend more time at the restaurant. I had always helped out at the restaurant, but this time it was different. Now I was vital - we simply couldn't afford to pay anyone else. I began working as a cashier during the week, and nearly all day on weekends, to help support my family. It was a responsibility I initially despised and resisted -- in this time of emotional unrest and confusion, the very last thing I wanted to do was work. Yet, the haunting image of my mother's pleading eyes would not go away and I reluctantly agreed to help.
The most lucid memories I have of early tenth grade are ones of drowning. Not physically, but academically. Trying to balance a chaotic load of schoolwork, which I had arrogantly assumed to be easy, with a demanding work schedule was a new type of challenge I was not equipped to face. Work I found to be tedious and enervating. In school I was weighed down by years of poor, almost nonexistent study habits and no sense of direction. My dad, who only briefly attended a community college and my mom, who didn't go to college at all, could offer me little in the way of advice. Alone, I struggled through the first semester of sophomore year while often questioning what I was trying for - I didn't have an answer. English was the exception - in literature I found not just unparalleled beauty, but what I felt to be divine truth. In the shared experiences of man I developed sympathy and understanding. I became obsessed with the aesthetics of language, the intricate inner workings of a truly great piece of writing deserving to be called art. A visceral, burning desire to create such works was born. Certain writers-Faulkner, Nabokov, and Cormac McCarthy in particular were my inspirations during this period.
Work, however, ended up teaching me more than just how to operate a cash register. After a semester of balancing work and school, I emerged with a new perspective on the world. Seeing exactly what my parents had to endure, the sacrifices they made for me, I began to realize how lucky I actually was. I grew close to my co-workers and got to experience first-hand their tedious day-to-day minimum-wage existences - many of them had nowhere near the same opportunity as I had. It was enlightening to see how education could dictate one's place in society. By the end I realized what I would be squandering if I didn't apply myself, that even if I had less money than my friends I still had incredible opportunities.
It was after this realization that I began to understand that things were not too late. I could escape the clutches of mediocrity, the spiral of apathy and self-pity with the resources that I had. I discovered that years of academic independence, once my greatest weakness, was now my greatest strength. I could do things on my own and carve out my own future - I was free.
I began to define myself. With newfound resolve I decided to push my potential. My grades improved substantially. I took the hardest courses I could. I founded clubs in all the subjects I had genuine interest in. I found myself in multiple positions of leadership - in school newspapers and in Speech and Debate. I found my greatest victory, however, in convincing my parents to let me pursue what had once been just a shadow of a dream, now a shade closer to realization. My major? English.