Ok sorry, my last post wasn't my last. This is like a last minute thing when i decided to apply for William and Mary since I might get in, so what the heck. The prompt was to write about anything I want so the admission may have a sense of who i am. I rushed the essay under an hour since the deadline is coming up, there will be a lot of grammar error so if you don't mind, please tear this essay apart.
Oh, and I need to cut ~90 words
Sweat gushed down from both sides of my cheeks. Like a rattle snake preying upon a delicious mouse that runs across the field, I stared intensely at the final piece of chicken on the plate two feet away. My arm relaxed and was ready to finish the war I had started. My opponent shot me the deadly gaze, yet still did not avert his concentration from our mutual target. On three, my hand swept across the table and aimed for the prize. Within a fraction of a second, the chopsticks tucked between my fingers snatched the chicken wing from my opponent. I won. Just like my father always said, I can become a ninja if I can increase the accuracy of my chopsticks skill.
While other children my age around the world learning how to talk or sucking on their milk bottles, here I was, learning how to eat rice with two sticks. "Don't be like those Western kids who only use forks and knives," "barbaric utensils" as my father used to describe. Whenever my instinct told me to use my left hand to control the two awkward pieces of wood, it always followed up with a smack across my head (there goes some of my brain cells). My father would think of every possible food that existed for me to practice on: rice, noodles, or even chicken soup. Thank God water did not enter his mind.
Chopsticks are not always used for elegant purposes. Vietnamese nannies have two ways to torture children. One, locking those poor kids in a room to listen to Cải Lương played at maximum volume- the worst kind of music that sounded like a broken violin and shrieked like a drowning fish. Two, chasing the kids with a "personalized" chopstick that is almost as long as a coconut tree. Usually I tried to be brave and prefer the latter while preparing myself with some hard cover books in my pants. However, the result always ended with the nanny racing to the kitchen and pull out a bigger "sword", only this time, the courageous soldier was down to his diaper.
Sometimes I wish knowing how to use chopsticks could take me to college or at least refill my penny jar, otherwise, all the pain I suffered through all these years would be for nothing. Watching my "Americanized" nephew struggle to hold the sticks together was like watching my nanny play football, too horrific to watch yet too hysterical to look away. I assured him that with enough practice, he can start a business catching flies with those tools.
My lifelong lesson: give an Asian kid a fork is like declare him a death sentence (his father would make sure it happens). Oh, and never try to understand the lame instructions on one of those Chinese takeout chopstick covers.
Oh, and I need to cut ~90 words
Sweat gushed down from both sides of my cheeks. Like a rattle snake preying upon a delicious mouse that runs across the field, I stared intensely at the final piece of chicken on the plate two feet away. My arm relaxed and was ready to finish the war I had started. My opponent shot me the deadly gaze, yet still did not avert his concentration from our mutual target. On three, my hand swept across the table and aimed for the prize. Within a fraction of a second, the chopsticks tucked between my fingers snatched the chicken wing from my opponent. I won. Just like my father always said, I can become a ninja if I can increase the accuracy of my chopsticks skill.
While other children my age around the world learning how to talk or sucking on their milk bottles, here I was, learning how to eat rice with two sticks. "Don't be like those Western kids who only use forks and knives," "barbaric utensils" as my father used to describe. Whenever my instinct told me to use my left hand to control the two awkward pieces of wood, it always followed up with a smack across my head (there goes some of my brain cells). My father would think of every possible food that existed for me to practice on: rice, noodles, or even chicken soup. Thank God water did not enter his mind.
Chopsticks are not always used for elegant purposes. Vietnamese nannies have two ways to torture children. One, locking those poor kids in a room to listen to Cải Lương played at maximum volume- the worst kind of music that sounded like a broken violin and shrieked like a drowning fish. Two, chasing the kids with a "personalized" chopstick that is almost as long as a coconut tree. Usually I tried to be brave and prefer the latter while preparing myself with some hard cover books in my pants. However, the result always ended with the nanny racing to the kitchen and pull out a bigger "sword", only this time, the courageous soldier was down to his diaper.
Sometimes I wish knowing how to use chopsticks could take me to college or at least refill my penny jar, otherwise, all the pain I suffered through all these years would be for nothing. Watching my "Americanized" nephew struggle to hold the sticks together was like watching my nanny play football, too horrific to watch yet too hysterical to look away. I assured him that with enough practice, he can start a business catching flies with those tools.
My lifelong lesson: give an Asian kid a fork is like declare him a death sentence (his father would make sure it happens). Oh, and never try to understand the lame instructions on one of those Chinese takeout chopstick covers.
