sweetchic6893
Aug 11, 2009
Scholarship / Scholarship essay, Challenges/factors in life that make you who you are [4]
I did a lot of thinking and editing- and here's what I came up with:
My name means 'warlike', yet it's an understatement to the battle I call life. I was born to two immigrant parents, both of whom had never completed college, and were barely surviving. All the statistics pointed to the same life for me. Nevertheless, my parents vowed that my life would be better than theirs.
For as long as I can remember, I have always been strong-minded. This was never truer than when I was in the second grade. I had to attend public school for the first time due to a lack of funds. On the first day of school, I was seated next to a girl who would later become my archrival. Trouble began almost immediately. Her name was Harsha, so she was always confused with me. Our teacher jokingly promised us fifty cents for each time she got us confused. We competed academically so one of us could outshine the other.
I was seven years old, sitting at my desk, completing a spelling test. The word was "received". I agonized over the decision as to whether "e" should go before "I". That one word meant the difference between a 90 and a 100. As I debated inwardly, Harsha raised her hand to proclaim that she was finished. Not to be outdone, I quickly gave in my paper. Later that day we got the much anticipated results. She had gotten a 100, and I, a 90. Looking back now, I realize that the competition between Harsha and I prepared me for the world outside of elementary school. Our competition gave me a streak of determination that shines through in everything I do.
Outside of school, my passion is my church's choir. When I was fourteen, I went through a period of depression and loneliness. I felt as if I couldn't find my niche. I was ushering in my church when it was announced that Victory Voices In Praise would be performing. Thinking it was just another choir, I turned towards the couple who were waiting to be seated. As the track started playing for "Blessings of Abraham", I heard clapping, and feet stomping behind me. I quickly seated the couple and spun around to witness what was going on. The choir was unlike any I had ever seen before. They were smiling and getting into the music. It was as if they truly believed in what they were saying. They had a passion for singing. I knew, at that moment, that I wanted to be in that choir. As luck would have it, later that day, a member of the choir asked me if I'd like to join. I could barely contain my excitement as I nodded my head vigorously. The next week I attended my first rehearsal. I felt as if I finally found a place where I belonged. Everyone smiled and was very warm towards me. I was familiar with most of the songs, so learning my part was a breeze.
After finding a second home in the choir, I felt compelled to help others who were feeling hurt, depressed, and lonesome. I began with those who were closest to me- my friends. I was fifteen years old, a budding psychiatrist, playing with my brother in the park when I spotted Samantha. Her head hung like the droopy ears of a sad puppy- a far cry from her usually cheerful disposition. A black hooded sweatshirt covered her pale skin and attempted to mask her true feelings from the world. It only took one look for me to realize that something was terribly wrong.
As I approached her, she tried to smile, but it came out looking more like a grimace. I immediately ran to her side, and spoke to her for over two hours. I learned that she was in more pain than anyone could have ever imagined. On the surface, Samantha seemed to have it all- she was pretty, an honor roll student, black belt in karate, church attendee-but deep down she was hurting. Her family had just moved from Puerto Rico, and was facing financial troubles. Being the oldest daughter, she wasn't allowed to voice her opinions, so she kept her pain inside, and etched it on her arms. I couldn't stand to see her react that way. I spoke about school, vacations, and the future- anything I could to get her mind off her troubles. I told her she needed an alternate escape. Fortunately, she listened, and began to express herself through writing on an internet blog. Now she is back to being her energetic self. My life may not have been easy, but I am glad that my parents pushed me to defy the expectations of statistics. I am more than a number.
All comments are welcome and appreciated!
I did a lot of thinking and editing- and here's what I came up with:
My name means 'warlike', yet it's an understatement to the battle I call life. I was born to two immigrant parents, both of whom had never completed college, and were barely surviving. All the statistics pointed to the same life for me. Nevertheless, my parents vowed that my life would be better than theirs.
For as long as I can remember, I have always been strong-minded. This was never truer than when I was in the second grade. I had to attend public school for the first time due to a lack of funds. On the first day of school, I was seated next to a girl who would later become my archrival. Trouble began almost immediately. Her name was Harsha, so she was always confused with me. Our teacher jokingly promised us fifty cents for each time she got us confused. We competed academically so one of us could outshine the other.
I was seven years old, sitting at my desk, completing a spelling test. The word was "received". I agonized over the decision as to whether "e" should go before "I". That one word meant the difference between a 90 and a 100. As I debated inwardly, Harsha raised her hand to proclaim that she was finished. Not to be outdone, I quickly gave in my paper. Later that day we got the much anticipated results. She had gotten a 100, and I, a 90. Looking back now, I realize that the competition between Harsha and I prepared me for the world outside of elementary school. Our competition gave me a streak of determination that shines through in everything I do.
Outside of school, my passion is my church's choir. When I was fourteen, I went through a period of depression and loneliness. I felt as if I couldn't find my niche. I was ushering in my church when it was announced that Victory Voices In Praise would be performing. Thinking it was just another choir, I turned towards the couple who were waiting to be seated. As the track started playing for "Blessings of Abraham", I heard clapping, and feet stomping behind me. I quickly seated the couple and spun around to witness what was going on. The choir was unlike any I had ever seen before. They were smiling and getting into the music. It was as if they truly believed in what they were saying. They had a passion for singing. I knew, at that moment, that I wanted to be in that choir. As luck would have it, later that day, a member of the choir asked me if I'd like to join. I could barely contain my excitement as I nodded my head vigorously. The next week I attended my first rehearsal. I felt as if I finally found a place where I belonged. Everyone smiled and was very warm towards me. I was familiar with most of the songs, so learning my part was a breeze.
After finding a second home in the choir, I felt compelled to help others who were feeling hurt, depressed, and lonesome. I began with those who were closest to me- my friends. I was fifteen years old, a budding psychiatrist, playing with my brother in the park when I spotted Samantha. Her head hung like the droopy ears of a sad puppy- a far cry from her usually cheerful disposition. A black hooded sweatshirt covered her pale skin and attempted to mask her true feelings from the world. It only took one look for me to realize that something was terribly wrong.
As I approached her, she tried to smile, but it came out looking more like a grimace. I immediately ran to her side, and spoke to her for over two hours. I learned that she was in more pain than anyone could have ever imagined. On the surface, Samantha seemed to have it all- she was pretty, an honor roll student, black belt in karate, church attendee-but deep down she was hurting. Her family had just moved from Puerto Rico, and was facing financial troubles. Being the oldest daughter, she wasn't allowed to voice her opinions, so she kept her pain inside, and etched it on her arms. I couldn't stand to see her react that way. I spoke about school, vacations, and the future- anything I could to get her mind off her troubles. I told her she needed an alternate escape. Fortunately, she listened, and began to express herself through writing on an internet blog. Now she is back to being her energetic self. My life may not have been easy, but I am glad that my parents pushed me to defy the expectations of statistics. I am more than a number.
All comments are welcome and appreciated!
