Prompt: How have the arts shaped your life so far, and why do you believe the arts are important? What art medium(s) do you use to express yourself, and how might you apply your passion for the arts to college and beyond? (300 word limit)
Hope
When I get home from my night class, it is already dark.
Father's on the computer. He doesn't acknowledge that I just came home. Four years ago, he came to the United States "for his daughter," only to face isolation and racism from "foreigners." It's already been two years since he's been laid off. Since then, he has withdrawn from any stimulation, including alcohol. He retreats into silence; the blame is deafening.
I greet him."Hi Dad."
No response.
I go to my room. Change. Dinner. Back to my room.
And then, it starts.
First, tentatively, a note.
Then, a chord.
A scene.
A feeling.
Then, June, by Tchaikovsky.
The month that I was born in.
The Barcarolle describing a haunting yet beautiful river.
The pervasive silence of cold rage and suppressed emotions underlining the legatos.
A reminder, that once upon a time, my dad lovingly saved up three months' worth of his salary to buy this piano from a thrift store. Ironically, it's the only communication medium left between us. Every night, I still play. Some day, I hope, the silence will die.
Music doesn't shape me. It's me, the story of me, each and every day, retold and reinterpreted countless times. Music keeps my identity by sharing with people across time and space. Music reminds me of who and what I am: vulnerable and human. What month I was born in. How I, too, am worthy of love. That I AM.
Not surprisingly, I can never "perform"; my inner self's too private to be onstage. Nonetheless, through music, I've become more sensitive to feelings and hopes and dreams. In retrospect, my passion for music gives me an appreciation for life. It guides my interactions with other people. Music gives me compassion, and a medium to heal.
It's hope.
Hope
When I get home from my night class, it is already dark.
Father's on the computer. He doesn't acknowledge that I just came home. Four years ago, he came to the United States "for his daughter," only to face isolation and racism from "foreigners." It's already been two years since he's been laid off. Since then, he has withdrawn from any stimulation, including alcohol. He retreats into silence; the blame is deafening.
I greet him."Hi Dad."
No response.
I go to my room. Change. Dinner. Back to my room.
And then, it starts.
First, tentatively, a note.
Then, a chord.
A scene.
A feeling.
Then, June, by Tchaikovsky.
The month that I was born in.
The Barcarolle describing a haunting yet beautiful river.
The pervasive silence of cold rage and suppressed emotions underlining the legatos.
A reminder, that once upon a time, my dad lovingly saved up three months' worth of his salary to buy this piano from a thrift store. Ironically, it's the only communication medium left between us. Every night, I still play. Some day, I hope, the silence will die.
Music doesn't shape me. It's me, the story of me, each and every day, retold and reinterpreted countless times. Music keeps my identity by sharing with people across time and space. Music reminds me of who and what I am: vulnerable and human. What month I was born in. How I, too, am worthy of love. That I AM.
Not surprisingly, I can never "perform"; my inner self's too private to be onstage. Nonetheless, through music, I've become more sensitive to feelings and hopes and dreams. In retrospect, my passion for music gives me an appreciation for life. It guides my interactions with other people. Music gives me compassion, and a medium to heal.
It's hope.
