Please critique! I'm trying to get into Cornell early decision for Architecture. I have the SAT scores, extracurriculars, etc. Not a very good portfolio, but I'm working on it. I don't want to seem cliched, negative or unoriginal, so please call me out on it if it seems like I am.
Evaluate a significant experience.
Pseudo Puerto Rican
Growing up in a primarily white, middle-class area, I was blissfully unaware that I was different. For the most part, I was treated the same as my peers. My heritage was apparent from early age, however. I lived in California for three years after being born in New Jersey. My memories are fuzzy; a small house with a date palm in the backyard, barefoot toes wiggling on a patio. One of my mother's favorite tales was the story of how women approached her at playgrounds, tongues flying with a rapid rhythm. Slightly embarrassed, my mother confessed to them she could not understand Spanish. One woman asked her,
"Why not? Your daughter is clearly Latina."
The comments on my race were scarce throughout my childhood so I paid them no notice. The custodians once bet on what ethnicity I was in middle school, and when a flight attendant asked me what I was, I told her I was human. I assumed these comments were normal and took them as compliments without ever questioning them. However, gradually I began to realize that maybe I wasn't as white as I assumed myself to be. I tried on the label puertorriqueĊa for size, testing other's reactions and was gratified by the sudden attention I received from my white classmates. I spoke fluidly and rapidly in Spanish class, struggled to trill my rs, and watched telenovelas incessantly. I assumed an identity, a facade of Puerto Rican without ever understanding what it was.
My grandmother was Puerto Rican but if you asked her, she would loudly proclaim over Celia Cruz's wailings in an accented voice that she was white. I grew up hearing and understanding her Spanish frequently, yet completely unable to reciprocate in conversations until I took Spanish as my second language in school. My father on the other hand, lived in Mexico for five years and could speak Spanish extremely well but never spoke it except for the occasional adoring "mija".
My new image crumbled to pieces when I tried to speak in Spanish to a Mexican exchange student in eleventh grade. He laughed at my Spanish, called me a gringa, and advised me to just speak English. His comments stung my insecurities, but with the humiliation came realization. I had worked so hard to become something I was not. I was not Puerto Rican, nor was I white. While I didn't fit into a neatly defined ethnicity, I found that looking latina made me more approachable to other minorities, and my small-town background allowed me to get along with whites. When I was assigned a Chinese roommate in Cornell Summer College, we instantly bonded over Japanese dramas, Taiwanese actors, and Spanish music. I ended up making a friend for life, something more precious than a category ever could be.
Evaluate a significant experience.
Pseudo Puerto Rican
Growing up in a primarily white, middle-class area, I was blissfully unaware that I was different. For the most part, I was treated the same as my peers. My heritage was apparent from early age, however. I lived in California for three years after being born in New Jersey. My memories are fuzzy; a small house with a date palm in the backyard, barefoot toes wiggling on a patio. One of my mother's favorite tales was the story of how women approached her at playgrounds, tongues flying with a rapid rhythm. Slightly embarrassed, my mother confessed to them she could not understand Spanish. One woman asked her,
"Why not? Your daughter is clearly Latina."
The comments on my race were scarce throughout my childhood so I paid them no notice. The custodians once bet on what ethnicity I was in middle school, and when a flight attendant asked me what I was, I told her I was human. I assumed these comments were normal and took them as compliments without ever questioning them. However, gradually I began to realize that maybe I wasn't as white as I assumed myself to be. I tried on the label puertorriqueĊa for size, testing other's reactions and was gratified by the sudden attention I received from my white classmates. I spoke fluidly and rapidly in Spanish class, struggled to trill my rs, and watched telenovelas incessantly. I assumed an identity, a facade of Puerto Rican without ever understanding what it was.
My grandmother was Puerto Rican but if you asked her, she would loudly proclaim over Celia Cruz's wailings in an accented voice that she was white. I grew up hearing and understanding her Spanish frequently, yet completely unable to reciprocate in conversations until I took Spanish as my second language in school. My father on the other hand, lived in Mexico for five years and could speak Spanish extremely well but never spoke it except for the occasional adoring "mija".
My new image crumbled to pieces when I tried to speak in Spanish to a Mexican exchange student in eleventh grade. He laughed at my Spanish, called me a gringa, and advised me to just speak English. His comments stung my insecurities, but with the humiliation came realization. I had worked so hard to become something I was not. I was not Puerto Rican, nor was I white. While I didn't fit into a neatly defined ethnicity, I found that looking latina made me more approachable to other minorities, and my small-town background allowed me to get along with whites. When I was assigned a Chinese roommate in Cornell Summer College, we instantly bonded over Japanese dramas, Taiwanese actors, and Spanish music. I ended up making a friend for life, something more precious than a category ever could be.
