DavieThao
Feb 9, 2015
Undergraduate / Why Don't I Have Baby Pictures? - essay about experience in my life [2]
So hello everybody and thank you for taking the time to critique my essay. I really need honest opinions--constructive criticism, likes and dislikes, etc. because I have this strong feeling that my writing is in some ways not the best, so maybe y'all (yes I use y'all) can help me.
Without further ado, here is my essay and hopefully you guys can help me improve my writing.
Prompt: Write about a certain experience in your life (it can be any event) that has affected you in some ways. Elaborate more on this experience in your writing by providing a balance of main story and backstory (context).
Why Don't I Have Baby Pictures?
On that Thursday morning, I woke up with a euphoric feeling, common to all Minnesotan school children, when we discover the news that class has suddenly been canceled because of heavy snowfall. And of course, I wondered: "How much snow could there possibly be?" I got out from the comfort of my bed and yanked down on the curtain tassel, revealing me to the sight-of what I would say-a winter wonderland. The streets, sidewalk, cars, and porcelain garden gnomes were all blanketed in layer of white-powdery snow that felt like it was almost 30-feet high (it was really more like three feet.) I stood at my window, my hands up on the counter, my arms stiff, pondering about the countless activities that I can now enjoy with the extra time that I have. Just then, from downstairs my mom yells out, "Bang!" (One of two nicknames that I have in Hmong), "We need you to look at these papers from the Social Security!" Apart from my lazy and apathetic older brother, I was the only one in the family who was able to read and understand English fluently. Even though my brother understood English, he claimed he was "intellectually disabled", or to put it more bluntly, he claimed he was "retarded." He did this so that he could avoid helping my parents with paperwork. So, as a result, my parents would always come to me. This often annoyed me because I felt as though I could never get some time to focus on what I wanted to do. But I couldn't complain. My parents lost their jobs and were in a financial nightmare-we were on the verge of bankruptcy and losing our home. My dad's Social Security benefits application was the only lifeline to our situation.
My mom rushed up the stairs, clutching against her chest a cluster of papers. She hands me the one from the Social Security Administration, which was requesting for immigration documents. Simple enough I thought. I followed my mom to her room. She then grabbed out a cardboard box filled with stacks of dusty folders and documents that looks like as though it hasn't been touched in nearly a decade-literally. We then began to file through the folders, searching for my dad's immigration documents. However, while searching, I stumbled upon a folder that caught my attention. On the front of it was dated 06-20-1997 in big red ink, the date of my birthday. I was really curious to what was inside that folder; maybe it could have been filled with those baby pictures that I have never seen before. I was overwhelmed by curiosity, "Just a little peek" I told myself. I opened up the folder and peered inside. The first thing that I saw was a paper titled "Certificate of Adoption". "What no, this couldn't be real," I thought. I quickly pulled out the paper, my eyes glued to it, reading it word-for-word. Soon enough, I came to a realization that this was not fake. It was real; it was more real than any tangible and intangible thing that I have ever had, felt, or experienced. I finished reading, the last sentence ending on "this certificate of adoption has been issued by the State of Minnesota for David Kong Thao."
My mind became a convoluted mess of thoughts and emotions. I was in shock, disoriented, and in a state of denial. My mom was sitting right next to my side, unaware of my unintentional discovery. I handed her the folder and asked, stuttering as I said it, "Is this real?" Surprised, my mom stared me in the eyes, reached out for me and hugged me tightly as I started to cry and whimper in her arms. She started to caress my head and said to me in a calm tone "Bang, we aren't your real parents but please just know that we are still your parents, regardless of blood, you are still our son." She then began to tell me her story-the story of how she was never able to have kids of her own, why I was adopted, who my birth mother and father were and why they decided to abandon me in the orphanage for the first year and a half of my life.
Over these years, it has been difficult for me to accept the fact that I was adopted. My relationship with my parents as a result stagnated, a relationship that I attempting to rebuild and progress again. Although, unfortunately I still have that sense of emptiness, of being abandoned and of being unwanted. However, I believe that in time the experiences that I have with my parents will quickly come to fill that void.
So hello everybody and thank you for taking the time to critique my essay. I really need honest opinions--constructive criticism, likes and dislikes, etc. because I have this strong feeling that my writing is in some ways not the best, so maybe y'all (yes I use y'all) can help me.
Without further ado, here is my essay and hopefully you guys can help me improve my writing.
Prompt: Write about a certain experience in your life (it can be any event) that has affected you in some ways. Elaborate more on this experience in your writing by providing a balance of main story and backstory (context).
Why Don't I Have Baby Pictures?
On that Thursday morning, I woke up with a euphoric feeling, common to all Minnesotan school children, when we discover the news that class has suddenly been canceled because of heavy snowfall. And of course, I wondered: "How much snow could there possibly be?" I got out from the comfort of my bed and yanked down on the curtain tassel, revealing me to the sight-of what I would say-a winter wonderland. The streets, sidewalk, cars, and porcelain garden gnomes were all blanketed in layer of white-powdery snow that felt like it was almost 30-feet high (it was really more like three feet.) I stood at my window, my hands up on the counter, my arms stiff, pondering about the countless activities that I can now enjoy with the extra time that I have. Just then, from downstairs my mom yells out, "Bang!" (One of two nicknames that I have in Hmong), "We need you to look at these papers from the Social Security!" Apart from my lazy and apathetic older brother, I was the only one in the family who was able to read and understand English fluently. Even though my brother understood English, he claimed he was "intellectually disabled", or to put it more bluntly, he claimed he was "retarded." He did this so that he could avoid helping my parents with paperwork. So, as a result, my parents would always come to me. This often annoyed me because I felt as though I could never get some time to focus on what I wanted to do. But I couldn't complain. My parents lost their jobs and were in a financial nightmare-we were on the verge of bankruptcy and losing our home. My dad's Social Security benefits application was the only lifeline to our situation.
My mom rushed up the stairs, clutching against her chest a cluster of papers. She hands me the one from the Social Security Administration, which was requesting for immigration documents. Simple enough I thought. I followed my mom to her room. She then grabbed out a cardboard box filled with stacks of dusty folders and documents that looks like as though it hasn't been touched in nearly a decade-literally. We then began to file through the folders, searching for my dad's immigration documents. However, while searching, I stumbled upon a folder that caught my attention. On the front of it was dated 06-20-1997 in big red ink, the date of my birthday. I was really curious to what was inside that folder; maybe it could have been filled with those baby pictures that I have never seen before. I was overwhelmed by curiosity, "Just a little peek" I told myself. I opened up the folder and peered inside. The first thing that I saw was a paper titled "Certificate of Adoption". "What no, this couldn't be real," I thought. I quickly pulled out the paper, my eyes glued to it, reading it word-for-word. Soon enough, I came to a realization that this was not fake. It was real; it was more real than any tangible and intangible thing that I have ever had, felt, or experienced. I finished reading, the last sentence ending on "this certificate of adoption has been issued by the State of Minnesota for David Kong Thao."
My mind became a convoluted mess of thoughts and emotions. I was in shock, disoriented, and in a state of denial. My mom was sitting right next to my side, unaware of my unintentional discovery. I handed her the folder and asked, stuttering as I said it, "Is this real?" Surprised, my mom stared me in the eyes, reached out for me and hugged me tightly as I started to cry and whimper in her arms. She started to caress my head and said to me in a calm tone "Bang, we aren't your real parents but please just know that we are still your parents, regardless of blood, you are still our son." She then began to tell me her story-the story of how she was never able to have kids of her own, why I was adopted, who my birth mother and father were and why they decided to abandon me in the orphanage for the first year and a half of my life.
Over these years, it has been difficult for me to accept the fact that I was adopted. My relationship with my parents as a result stagnated, a relationship that I attempting to rebuild and progress again. Although, unfortunately I still have that sense of emptiness, of being abandoned and of being unwanted. However, I believe that in time the experiences that I have with my parents will quickly come to fill that void.
