Kimberlim
Oct 5, 2014
Undergraduate / Bright lights, sweaty palms and shaky knees - UC essay about bullying and racism [2]
Prompt: Tell us about a personal quality, talent, accomplishment, contribution or experience that is important to you. What about this quality or accomplishment makes you proud and how does it relate to the person you are?
Bright lights, sweaty palms and shaky knees.
I felt magnified - as if every movement, every breath, was scrutinized by the 600 people before me. Banners and signboards battled silently as they swung in support of me or my opponents.
Running for mock-elections during my National Service Camp was surreal (not sure what word to use). Before, I only spoke through movement, finding security through Muay Thai or expression through art. I didn't complain or fight back - surrender was easy and prevented more conflicts. However, new environments changed me. I've always known of racism and sexism; the culture and practice of such was deeply ingrained in the camp. Passing glares, callous remarks and ostracization was prominent, but not enough for disciplinary action.
The sight of my Chinese-Indian friend's bruised face sparked deeply-seeded emotions. Paolo's mixed heritage meant he was 'tainted' and consequently, belonged nowhere - a pariah. I could empathize with his ordeal of wanting to report the incident and the fear of aggravating his perpetrators. As a kid, I was bullied for my appearance - so I changed it: losing weight, getting braces - the whole makeover. But race and sex? You couldn't change those, not without sacrificing the identity you were born with - a cost nobody should pay for others. And bullies using the concept of "us" or "them" for violence were to me, pathetic. While I wanted to propagate anti-discrimination for others, my participation in the mock-elections wasn't completely selfless. I did it for me too - my way of forgiving myself for not speaking out about getting bullied.
The bell rings, signaling the 8 minute timer. As I began my speech, my voice masks my anxiety. Then, the whispers started and grew in crescendo until they became chants.
"Cina balik Cina!"(Chinese return to China!)
"Go back to the kitchen!"
My lips quivered as I continued but the loud boos and jeers were taking its toll. They laughed, like mad hyenas at a joke with no punch line. Childhood memories of getting locked in darkness mixed with the saccharine smell of Coca-cola in my hair flooded my thoughts.
Then, release.
A tear escaped and an awkward silence ensued. After years of plastering my emotions, I freed them onto an audience. Observations of movies and TV shows told me I should run off the stage, but I didn't. Doing so would've been the final blow - the surrender. I couldn't do that to Paolo or my supporters, but most importantly, I couldn't do that to myself. So, I continued, tears still streaming. Crying was weird that way - I wanted to stop, but I just couldn't. It was uncomfortable, but I didn't care. I exchanged whatever 'shame' I felt for the need to fulfill my purpose. When I finished, it was silent. And like a cliché scene from an underdog movie, they clapped.
Many things happened after that. People I never knew apologized for the things I never heard them said. It was strange seeing the guilt on their faces. I'm not sure why that incident affected them so but I surmise that most of them never realized how badly bullying affected someone and by apologizing to me, they relieved their guilty conscience. And I'm okay with that because while it sounds egotistic, I believe that I truly impacted those people. When I replay those moments on stage, I imagine a chubby little girl with pigtails sitting in the audience, smiling with pride. She stands up, clapping and I see her Coca-cola stained name tag; it says, "Kimberly."
P.S my name is Kimberly
Prompt: Tell us about a personal quality, talent, accomplishment, contribution or experience that is important to you. What about this quality or accomplishment makes you proud and how does it relate to the person you are?
Bright lights, sweaty palms and shaky knees.
I felt magnified - as if every movement, every breath, was scrutinized by the 600 people before me. Banners and signboards battled silently as they swung in support of me or my opponents.
Running for mock-elections during my National Service Camp was surreal (not sure what word to use). Before, I only spoke through movement, finding security through Muay Thai or expression through art. I didn't complain or fight back - surrender was easy and prevented more conflicts. However, new environments changed me. I've always known of racism and sexism; the culture and practice of such was deeply ingrained in the camp. Passing glares, callous remarks and ostracization was prominent, but not enough for disciplinary action.
The sight of my Chinese-Indian friend's bruised face sparked deeply-seeded emotions. Paolo's mixed heritage meant he was 'tainted' and consequently, belonged nowhere - a pariah. I could empathize with his ordeal of wanting to report the incident and the fear of aggravating his perpetrators. As a kid, I was bullied for my appearance - so I changed it: losing weight, getting braces - the whole makeover. But race and sex? You couldn't change those, not without sacrificing the identity you were born with - a cost nobody should pay for others. And bullies using the concept of "us" or "them" for violence were to me, pathetic. While I wanted to propagate anti-discrimination for others, my participation in the mock-elections wasn't completely selfless. I did it for me too - my way of forgiving myself for not speaking out about getting bullied.
The bell rings, signaling the 8 minute timer. As I began my speech, my voice masks my anxiety. Then, the whispers started and grew in crescendo until they became chants.
"Cina balik Cina!"(Chinese return to China!)
"Go back to the kitchen!"
My lips quivered as I continued but the loud boos and jeers were taking its toll. They laughed, like mad hyenas at a joke with no punch line. Childhood memories of getting locked in darkness mixed with the saccharine smell of Coca-cola in my hair flooded my thoughts.
Then, release.
A tear escaped and an awkward silence ensued. After years of plastering my emotions, I freed them onto an audience. Observations of movies and TV shows told me I should run off the stage, but I didn't. Doing so would've been the final blow - the surrender. I couldn't do that to Paolo or my supporters, but most importantly, I couldn't do that to myself. So, I continued, tears still streaming. Crying was weird that way - I wanted to stop, but I just couldn't. It was uncomfortable, but I didn't care. I exchanged whatever 'shame' I felt for the need to fulfill my purpose. When I finished, it was silent. And like a cliché scene from an underdog movie, they clapped.
Many things happened after that. People I never knew apologized for the things I never heard them said. It was strange seeing the guilt on their faces. I'm not sure why that incident affected them so but I surmise that most of them never realized how badly bullying affected someone and by apologizing to me, they relieved their guilty conscience. And I'm okay with that because while it sounds egotistic, I believe that I truly impacted those people. When I replay those moments on stage, I imagine a chubby little girl with pigtails sitting in the audience, smiling with pride. She stands up, clapping and I see her Coca-cola stained name tag; it says, "Kimberly."
P.S my name is Kimberly