Scholarship / 'called weird many, many times' - Questbridge scholarship [2]

This essay is for a scholarship application to questbridge.

I have been called weird many, many times. Perhaps it's because I call red blood cells cute, or because I blast the Bee Gees with the windows down when I roll up to the stop light. Perhaps it's because I choose to spend my Friday night burning food around the campfire with my cousins over going out to some booze fueled affair. If I was wont to blame my behavior on others, I would say that growing up as a home schooler with an alcoholic father who constantly put me down made me the socially awkward and strange person that I am. I could cite my unconventional upbringing as the reason that I have few friends and have never once been voted onto homecoming court. In truth, I have nothing but thanks to give to my family. I am an intelligent, unique, and innovative woman and it is they who have shaped me.

Author Jeanette Walls once stated that every successful person has undergone some tremendous hardship that they adapted to and ultimately thrived because of it. While I haven't endured anything close to the kinds of struggles she endured with her hopelessly alcoholic father and nomadic lifestyle in poverty, I share the mindset. I have in common with her the innate ability to adapt, to rise out of one's failures and embrace life's unpleasant surprises. During my sophomore year, my sister started having grand mal seizures. Mom worked long hours to pay the medical bills while I took her place at home. After school I cleaned, cooked dinner, and made sure Berta was comfortable before I even began the evening's homework.

Rarely did I stop and think how tough life had become. Survival was my main preoccupation. What some perceived as challenges, I envisioned as great adventures. My mom called them learning experiences. She would tell me life wasn't served on a silver platter, but if I was willing to put in the work, nothing was out of reach.

My mother was a model of hard work and a love of learning. She gave up her career in favor of a subservient life as a wife and educator. She determined to home school the three of us when we were already reading chapter books at age five. I had read the works of Tolkien, Cather, and Kipling before beginning eighth grade. Literature and the basic subjects weren't enough for me, however, and she realized learning to research would make me an independent thinker. The library became a second home to me; I passed hours riffling through any subject that piqued my interest. Today I am armed with an eclectic knowledge of subjects ranging from the hybridization of giant pumpkins to the Lucifer effect. I was taught to question everything and become a near expert in my interests. I was exposed to new ideas which resulted in a lifelong habit of developing my own.

This flexible education allowed for our exodus to Three Lakes. Dad's income bore a sparse living, so every summer Mom hauled us kids out to Wisconsin where she painted houses all summer to make ends meet. The trip took five days in our Toyota Camry, filled sardine-style with the four of us, and a menagerie of animals. Summer vacation to us meant employment at the neighbor's farm while Mom worked all day. Toiling in sweat and grime, I relished planting raspberries and flinging decaying food into the pig pen. At day's end we would trudge through the woods with dinner earned from long hours shoveling manure. Now that I am older, scrubbing toilets for grocery money seems effortless compared to the work I did as a child. I feel the same childish delight in flipping burgers now as I did during my days on the farm.

My father visited infrequently as he always seemed to be working. Even at home he didn't have time for us. Every day he gave me about three minutes of his time, for I was his favorite. He pointed out my physical flaws, and nodded off when I spoke about my day. The only way to impress him was with knowledge and achievements. I read voraciously in an attempt to amass random facts which I would later excitedly tell to deaf ears. I am often complimented on the attention to minute details in my artwork, but this is from hours of practice I spent as a child trying to make a master piece he wouldn't throw out.

I cannot be angry for the neglect I felt or the shame in witnessing my father drunkenly stagger down the street in his underwear. Anger has turned to gratitude. I can only thank him for freeing me of the need to depend on the approval of others. I am my own person.

Any comments are appreciated. Thank you!