Undergraduate / 'Bobby Kennedy' A PERSONAL STATEMENT, FACTORS THAT HAVE HAD LASTING IMPACT ON MY LIFE. [3]

I want to possibly develop this into a personal statement for a transfer application. Please, all feedback would be greatly appreciated. Here we go.

"Bobby Kennedy once said that 'Some men look at things the way they are, and say why... I dream things that never were and say why not?'... Gentlemen, today history calls on us to dedicate ourselves to that same ideal, to the vigor and optimism of a bygone era, to those very same two words with the ring of fate - WHY NOT?!"

My words were drowned in a roar of acclamation and it was several minutes before it was quiet enough for me to proceed. As I stood up behind the podium I drank in the energy of the crowd before me. That brief moment of suspense, when it seemed as if I could, like a hypnotist, control every action and every emotion of my audience was the most vivid memory of my time at the American Legion Boys State of South Dakota 2013. The auditorium exploded in a standing ovation when my speech winded to a close. It was a smashing success. There was the occasional "That was the best Boys State speech I've ever heard" followed by a slap on the back. Our candidate for Governor won -a feat largely credited to my role as Party State Chairman. What very few of my fellow Boys Staters knew, however, was that I was up at 3am that morning to write my speech. Very few of them probably guessed too that I drew inspiration for my speech from a place I call home some 5000 miles away.

In the mass of humanity on the city's main artery, Spintex Road, a smart middle-aged professional raises an arm to hail one of the capital's half a million brightly painted taxis. His palm stretches out and his grip on the brown, leather-cased briefcase he carries is loosened. Suddenly, like some bird of prey swooping down from the skies, a tattered, barefoot figure in a T-shirt three sizes too big shoots out, weaves under the man's arm, wrenches free the briefcase and is away, moving expertly among the rush-hour traffic, forcing a Metro Mass Transit bus to an emergency stop with a wail of brakes and horn.

Accra is best seen from the window of a trotro.
Those rickety, sardine-packed buses,
They offer a front-row view into this schizophrenic, Jekyll and Hyde agglomeration.
Steel and glass skyscrapers rise around the by-passes and the manicured lawns of the Tetteh Quashie Circle.
Half a mile ahead
Your route takes you past cardboard and tin shanties
Sprawled out over the plains that form a backdrop to the city.

Rich Accra has managed to sweep the habitations of the poor out of sight.
But the paupers will not starve on the fringes while the princes feast.
They invade the Central Business District in their rags.
Hawkers and beggars impede your progress on streets
Humming with the soft purrs of Mercedes, Alfa Romeos and Peugeots.

Each of these faces hides a personal tragedy:
The fifteen-year-old boy hanging to the door of your trotro so precariously,
He lost his parents to AIDS five years ago.
He earns two cedis a day working as a conductor.
You toss your loose change at the blind man in his fifties whose family deserted him.
Now he roams the bus stations singing festive hymns
While his eight-year-old daughter leads him,
Accompanies his music with a maraca and holds out the begging bowl.
You can't help but catch the expressions of unutterable misery on the father's
Face, and distracted, hungry anxiety on the girl's,
Which belie their carnival rhythms.
The twenty-five-year old widow and mother of three
Who ladles out your rushed breakfast of koko under the Mahogany tree.
She works as a food vendor in the daytime and at night as a prostitute.

Every time I take a bus ride through the city is an opportunity to gain a deeper insight into the complexities at work here. The faces I see along the way are the reason I wish to make a career of public service. I aspire to be mayor of Accra. I acknowledge that the Accra City Government and the Flagstaff House have been the main architects of the poor's plight, because they have failed to invest in rural industry, to keep people in the villages. They have failed to invest in job creation in the city, to give city dwellers an adequate income, and they have spent the country's scarce funds on over-expensive housing. But I sense deep in my bones that, with just a slight change in priorities, these instruments of pervasion could be used to deliver empowerment to the slums. Existing shanties can be upgraded very cheaply, with roads, sewers, water, light, and best of all with the voluntary labor of the squatters themselves. Fresh migrants can be provided with sites on which to build their own houses with a bit of expert guidance. Schools and health centers can be more evenly spread throughout the city. These measures will not produce a model garden city, but they will provide the migrants with a more healthy and dignified environment where they and their children have more equal chances in life. Why not?

I possess an unshakable faith in that challenge to the status quo so perfectly encapsulated and prefigured by Senator Kennedy some fifty or so years ago because it is one that has defined my life. My biography thus far has been a long-winding journey of self-discovery. I have come to accept that I am a mover and a shaker, one who constantly strives to be the change he wants to see in the world. The past couple of years have been a series of fairly significant 'why nots' that I have successfully answered.

Like when I first got it into my head to come to the United States on an exchange two years ago. Even my Dad, on whose sense of adventure I could usually count, was skeptical. How do you plan to make up for the lost year? The strange, new environment can surely not be good for your body and soul. I must admit that at a point I began to entertain doubts myself. You can only imagine the dilemma of the boy who has lived all his life in Ghana and whose only conception of the USA encompassed New York, Texas and California, who then discovers that he'd be spending an entire high school year in Brandon, South Dakota. (You're sure that's even in the US?). But I packed up and came because I was resolved to make the best of this cross-cultural opportunity and to prove to myself that I could excel just about anywhere I find myself. I came away with far more than that. My exchange experience changed my life. When I say that, I'm not referring to my barely recognizable Mid-Western accent or to my now increased tolerance for temperature extremes. I'm talking about something far more substantive. It is in the new viewing lenses I have gained into the world, a more open world; it is in my deepened respect and tolerance for people who may not share my faith, my opinion, my heritage or my unflinching support for the Real Madrid Soccer Team; and it is in the values imbued through over a hundred hours of voluntary service -that not only is making the world a better place possible...doing so is a moral imperative. My exchange year has reinforced my conviction that in this world, there is no right, there is no wrong, things are just different. Vini, viti, vici. I was glad I came.

Already my sights are set on the next big challenge. In the next three years, I see myself as a Schwartzman Scholar to China. The changes taking place in that sub-continent come nothing short of changing the dynamics of trade and politics on the planet and I am fascinated by the opportunity to be a first-hand witness as history unfolds. Wait a minute. Did I mention that students are drawn from every other continent of the world except Africa? Why not?