Prompt: Some students have a background or story that is so central to their identity that they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
I closed my eyes and basked in the warmth of the sun shining on me for the first time in three days. It was liberating to be able to stretch my legs out after the long, cramped flight from America. I then opened my eyes, and was in shock.
I am American by birth and Bengali by heritage. Often when I was younger I would feel disconnected from the world of my parents and grandparents. I felt far more connected to America than Bangladesh. I had never visited Bangladesh; it seemed like a far-flung and vague land. I only had a hazy concept of what kind of land my parents had come from. My parents were always recounting tales about the joys and the hardships of their childhoods in Bangladesh. My mom told me how there was never a dull moment with 13 brothers and sisters. At the same time, my dad told me how he would tell me how he had to walk for over an hour just to get an education. My parents were always telling me these types of tales to get me interested and concerned about my ancestral land but at the time they all went over my head. As far as I saw it these stories had nothing to do with me. Then the summer of seventh grade I visited Bangladesh for the first time, where I truly connected with the stories my parents always told me.
I first arrived in Dhaka, the capital city. When I exited the airport, I saw a large fence and right behind the fence a mass of hands and faces begging for money, for anything at all. My stomach turned. Ironically I felt helpless in front of all these impoverished people. My mom quickly came by my side and lead me dumbly to my uncle, who had arrived to pick us up. We promptly got into the car, sped off for about two seconds, and then traffic. We were stuck amid all of the beggars. I looked out the window and immediately yelped. There tapping against the window was a yellow half decayed hand. I could almost see bone. I instantly turned to my mom, who was half asleep from jet lag, and appealed to her to give the man some money. I heard my uncle chuckle in front of me advising "If you give money to every beggar you see here, you'll soon become a beggar yourself." I fell silent for a moment, but I could still hear the slow tap... tap... on the window, I redoubled my efforts. To my surprise, my uncle decided to crack open the window and handed me a note. As I slid the bill through the crack into the hand of the beggar, I saw a quick flash of gratitude in his eyes. However at the time all I felt was relief that I would no longer hear the tap on the window.
My experience at my cousin's village highlighted the other part of Bangladesh that my parents always told me about, the tight knit community. I would spend all day running around with numerous family members, inventing and learning new games. I could easily see why my parents missed Bangladesh so much. In America it is rare to feel so close to so many people.
As I grew older and reflected back on my experiences in Bangladesh I realize now what my parents were always hinting at when they told me those stories. I need to go back and help these people, my people, with the all the advantages I've had in life. I know now that being Bengali is just as important to my identity as being an American.
I closed my eyes and basked in the warmth of the sun shining on me for the first time in three days. It was liberating to be able to stretch my legs out after the long, cramped flight from America. I then opened my eyes, and was in shock.
I am American by birth and Bengali by heritage. Often when I was younger I would feel disconnected from the world of my parents and grandparents. I felt far more connected to America than Bangladesh. I had never visited Bangladesh; it seemed like a far-flung and vague land. I only had a hazy concept of what kind of land my parents had come from. My parents were always recounting tales about the joys and the hardships of their childhoods in Bangladesh. My mom told me how there was never a dull moment with 13 brothers and sisters. At the same time, my dad told me how he would tell me how he had to walk for over an hour just to get an education. My parents were always telling me these types of tales to get me interested and concerned about my ancestral land but at the time they all went over my head. As far as I saw it these stories had nothing to do with me. Then the summer of seventh grade I visited Bangladesh for the first time, where I truly connected with the stories my parents always told me.
I first arrived in Dhaka, the capital city. When I exited the airport, I saw a large fence and right behind the fence a mass of hands and faces begging for money, for anything at all. My stomach turned. Ironically I felt helpless in front of all these impoverished people. My mom quickly came by my side and lead me dumbly to my uncle, who had arrived to pick us up. We promptly got into the car, sped off for about two seconds, and then traffic. We were stuck amid all of the beggars. I looked out the window and immediately yelped. There tapping against the window was a yellow half decayed hand. I could almost see bone. I instantly turned to my mom, who was half asleep from jet lag, and appealed to her to give the man some money. I heard my uncle chuckle in front of me advising "If you give money to every beggar you see here, you'll soon become a beggar yourself." I fell silent for a moment, but I could still hear the slow tap... tap... on the window, I redoubled my efforts. To my surprise, my uncle decided to crack open the window and handed me a note. As I slid the bill through the crack into the hand of the beggar, I saw a quick flash of gratitude in his eyes. However at the time all I felt was relief that I would no longer hear the tap on the window.
My experience at my cousin's village highlighted the other part of Bangladesh that my parents always told me about, the tight knit community. I would spend all day running around with numerous family members, inventing and learning new games. I could easily see why my parents missed Bangladesh so much. In America it is rare to feel so close to so many people.
As I grew older and reflected back on my experiences in Bangladesh I realize now what my parents were always hinting at when they told me those stories. I need to go back and help these people, my people, with the all the advantages I've had in life. I know now that being Bengali is just as important to my identity as being an American.