maaxx
Dec 9, 2024
Undergraduate / Father's Birkenstocks - Common App Essay [3]
Thank you, I have thought all of which you said. Do you have any suggestions?
Thank you, I have thought all of which you said. Do you have any suggestions?
maaxx
Dec 9, 2024
Undergraduate / Father's Birkenstocks - Common App Essay [3]
I'll never forget the first time I saw my father's Birkenstocks; just before everything shut down, he brought me to Canobie Lake. That whole day, whether we were throwing darts, shooting hoops, or just walking, it felt like his Birkenstocks granted him superhuman-like abilities: sinking every 3, popping every balloon, and seemingly towering over everyone we passed. I longed to be in his shoes.
However, over time, I realized that my father wasn't a superhero, but rather a mere mortal.
It was a typical Saturday night for me: I packed my backpack with clothes, took the D train to my father's apartment, and came home to an empty house. I shut myself in my room with my squat rack, blasting my "Classical Bangers" playlist. Amongst the orchestra, I could sense the vibrations of my father's footsteps on the hardwood floor after he stumbled through the front door. He staggered into my room as if gravity were playing tricks on him, accompanied by the stench of cheap wine. The predictable disruption of my workout's tranquility forced a wave of resignation over me; this pattern had to end. I picked up my unopened bag and absconded out the door. The closest shoes to my exit were my father's Birkenstocks. With each stride, my feet began to melt into the sandals' gummy bottoms, changing the impressionable identity of the shoe as a whole. Consciously or unconsciously, I took with me the last tangible reminder of my father, as I left for good.
Weeks passed before I saw them again, lying in the middle of my living room. A sudden eagerness to try them on again struck me; one by one, I quietly tried them on. Instead of the comfortable fit I had anticipated, my feet began to feel claustrophobic; my father's Birkenstocks seemed to be rejecting their new wearer. I tried everything from adjusting the straps to bending the spongy soles to wiggling my toes in a desperate bid for comfort, but nothing seemed to work. With a sigh of defeat, I kicked them off.
I began to detest their uncomfortableness, so I wore them everywhere: walking my dog, at the beach, and lounging around my house. As I continued to wear them and they began to mold to my feet, my father's Birkenstocks formed into an unsuspecting companion, guiding me wherever I stepped.
My own friends even began to question why I held onto them:
"You've had those things forever dude. They're all worn out."
"Yeah, I've been meaning to throw them out," I responded, looking down at my Birkenstocks.
I wasn't sure why I held onto them, and part of me truly did mean to throw them out. However, another part of me was trying to hold onto my fond memories of him like playing Night at the Museum in his salon while he was between houses. I felt like if I kept my Birkenstocks, then I could preserve the memories of being loved by my father. Letting go of them felt like letting go of him.
Months later, while I was rummaging through my closet to find some shoes, I spotted the Birkenstocks. Slipping them on, I could feel the familiarity of how the cork perfectly cradled each foot. However, when I looked down, all I saw was a ratty pair of sandals. The buckle was broken, and the heel cup was deteriorating. I decided that it was time to toss them. As I held them over the trash, I began to feel nostalgia, but the truth was clearer than ever: my memories with my dad were just that -- memories. With my journey wearing my father's Birkenstocks ending with comfort, I came to terms with reality: he was just a guy trying his best.
I'll never forget the first time I saw my father's Birkenstocks; just before everything shut down, he brought me to Canobie Lake. That whole day, whether we were throwing darts, shooting hoops, or just walking, it felt like his Birkenstocks granted him superhuman-like abilities: sinking every 3, popping every balloon, and seemingly towering over everyone we passed. I longed to be in his shoes.
However, over time, I realized that my father wasn't a superhero, but rather a mere mortal.
It was a typical Saturday night for me: I packed my backpack with clothes, took the D train to my father's apartment, and came home to an empty house. I shut myself in my room with my squat rack, blasting my "Classical Bangers" playlist. Amongst the orchestra, I could sense the vibrations of my father's footsteps on the hardwood floor after he stumbled through the front door. He staggered into my room as if gravity were playing tricks on him, accompanied by the stench of cheap wine. The predictable disruption of my workout's tranquility forced a wave of resignation over me; this pattern had to end. I picked up my unopened bag and absconded out the door. The closest shoes to my exit were my father's Birkenstocks. With each stride, my feet began to melt into the sandals' gummy bottoms, changing the impressionable identity of the shoe as a whole. Consciously or unconsciously, I took with me the last tangible reminder of my father, as I left for good.
Weeks passed before I saw them again, lying in the middle of my living room. A sudden eagerness to try them on again struck me; one by one, I quietly tried them on. Instead of the comfortable fit I had anticipated, my feet began to feel claustrophobic; my father's Birkenstocks seemed to be rejecting their new wearer. I tried everything from adjusting the straps to bending the spongy soles to wiggling my toes in a desperate bid for comfort, but nothing seemed to work. With a sigh of defeat, I kicked them off.
I began to detest their uncomfortableness, so I wore them everywhere: walking my dog, at the beach, and lounging around my house. As I continued to wear them and they began to mold to my feet, my father's Birkenstocks formed into an unsuspecting companion, guiding me wherever I stepped.
My own friends even began to question why I held onto them:
"You've had those things forever dude. They're all worn out."
"Yeah, I've been meaning to throw them out," I responded, looking down at my Birkenstocks.
I wasn't sure why I held onto them, and part of me truly did mean to throw them out. However, another part of me was trying to hold onto my fond memories of him like playing Night at the Museum in his salon while he was between houses. I felt like if I kept my Birkenstocks, then I could preserve the memories of being loved by my father. Letting go of them felt like letting go of him.
Months later, while I was rummaging through my closet to find some shoes, I spotted the Birkenstocks. Slipping them on, I could feel the familiarity of how the cork perfectly cradled each foot. However, when I looked down, all I saw was a ratty pair of sandals. The buckle was broken, and the heel cup was deteriorating. I decided that it was time to toss them. As I held them over the trash, I began to feel nostalgia, but the truth was clearer than ever: my memories with my dad were just that -- memories. With my journey wearing my father's Birkenstocks ending with comfort, I came to terms with reality: he was just a guy trying his best.
