Prompt: Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you.
In winter 2009, at the tender age of fourteen, I was exiled to a far, barbaric land. A land of corruption, chaos, and hostility: a land where starvation was commonplace, and the notion of civility was entirely foreign. At least, that's how being forced to attend a youth mission trip in the remote village of Ifewara, Nigeria seemed to me. The more my parents tried to convince me otherwise, the further my heart sank into the dark depths of my stomach; there was no way I, a girl accustomed to fast food and faster text messaging, could live in the poster city for destitution.
Throughout the ever-enduring journey to the village, I made no attempt to subdue my discontent. The group leader grinned, I scoffed. My peers conversed, I remained lethargic and disconnected. However, the very moment our van descended onto the umber ground, my naïve conceptions dissolved into the reality that appeared through the broken, begrimed windshield. Through that windshield, I saw the foreign soil that threatened life as I knew it, the mud houses lined with straw mats and despondence, the ravenous dog foraging for its only meal of the day. I saw the gaunt faces of two young boys scurrying about barefoot. I saw the naked sleeping baby attached to its mothers back with nothing more than an antiquated piece of cloth. I saw my fate for the next week.
My bewilderment peaked when the mission team and I arrived at the schoolhouse where we would be dispensing "aid and affection," in the words of our group leader, all week. As my eyes wandered and my heart rate accelerated beyond the speed of the flies buzzing around my perspiring head, a man standing before an overcrowded classroom caught my attention; he presumably asked a question. Not a split second later, a sea of frail yet eager hands shot into the air, each one trying to out reach the others in hopes of winning the man's recognition. The man- whom I distinguished as the teacher- let out a slight chuckle, caught a glimpse of my intrigued stare, and continued attending to the class. The longer I stayed in the schoolhouse, the more I wanted to connect with each of the eager hands I observed. Although the schoolhouse was originally a place I was hesitant to see, I ended up going during my spare time everyday that week even if it was just to sing 'Igwe' with Dami, the smallest girl who seemed to be in a constantly jubilant state. It was because of this school, because of this girl, that I finally realized what I had truly seen through that windshield, heritage- in the hand crafted mud house, in the young boys playing an age-old Nigerian game, in the baby swaddled between a nurturing mother and carefully tailored ankara.
The Nigerian's strong sense of culture had filtered into my subconscious. I was no longer Justine the egocentric aesthetician, but Justine the proud Nigerian, versed in the appreciation of foreign cultures, and hoping to continue her education of such cultures through travels to ever further, wilder lands. I was finally proud of my heritage, and thankful that my parents forced me into a situation that shaped who I am today.
This is what I have so far. I know the concluding paragraph needs a lot of help. Constructive criticism as well as revisions are definitely appreciated, and I don't know if this information is necessary, but I'm probably using this essay for Dartmouth!
In winter 2009, at the tender age of fourteen, I was exiled to a far, barbaric land. A land of corruption, chaos, and hostility: a land where starvation was commonplace, and the notion of civility was entirely foreign. At least, that's how being forced to attend a youth mission trip in the remote village of Ifewara, Nigeria seemed to me. The more my parents tried to convince me otherwise, the further my heart sank into the dark depths of my stomach; there was no way I, a girl accustomed to fast food and faster text messaging, could live in the poster city for destitution.
Throughout the ever-enduring journey to the village, I made no attempt to subdue my discontent. The group leader grinned, I scoffed. My peers conversed, I remained lethargic and disconnected. However, the very moment our van descended onto the umber ground, my naïve conceptions dissolved into the reality that appeared through the broken, begrimed windshield. Through that windshield, I saw the foreign soil that threatened life as I knew it, the mud houses lined with straw mats and despondence, the ravenous dog foraging for its only meal of the day. I saw the gaunt faces of two young boys scurrying about barefoot. I saw the naked sleeping baby attached to its mothers back with nothing more than an antiquated piece of cloth. I saw my fate for the next week.
My bewilderment peaked when the mission team and I arrived at the schoolhouse where we would be dispensing "aid and affection," in the words of our group leader, all week. As my eyes wandered and my heart rate accelerated beyond the speed of the flies buzzing around my perspiring head, a man standing before an overcrowded classroom caught my attention; he presumably asked a question. Not a split second later, a sea of frail yet eager hands shot into the air, each one trying to out reach the others in hopes of winning the man's recognition. The man- whom I distinguished as the teacher- let out a slight chuckle, caught a glimpse of my intrigued stare, and continued attending to the class. The longer I stayed in the schoolhouse, the more I wanted to connect with each of the eager hands I observed. Although the schoolhouse was originally a place I was hesitant to see, I ended up going during my spare time everyday that week even if it was just to sing 'Igwe' with Dami, the smallest girl who seemed to be in a constantly jubilant state. It was because of this school, because of this girl, that I finally realized what I had truly seen through that windshield, heritage- in the hand crafted mud house, in the young boys playing an age-old Nigerian game, in the baby swaddled between a nurturing mother and carefully tailored ankara.
The Nigerian's strong sense of culture had filtered into my subconscious. I was no longer Justine the egocentric aesthetician, but Justine the proud Nigerian, versed in the appreciation of foreign cultures, and hoping to continue her education of such cultures through travels to ever further, wilder lands. I was finally proud of my heritage, and thankful that my parents forced me into a situation that shaped who I am today.
This is what I have so far. I know the concluding paragraph needs a lot of help. Constructive criticism as well as revisions are definitely appreciated, and I don't know if this information is necessary, but I'm probably using this essay for Dartmouth!
