Any opinions on this? It's really rough and nowhere close to complete. It shows a bit about how I see the world and about the types of people I've met. I'm not sure if I should develop it or scrap it. (I was thinking of using it for the common app essay or one of those "why are you different?" essays)
In what way do you feel you are different from your peers, and how will this shape your contribution to the Notre Dame community?
* Sidewalks?
I like to take walks looking down at the sidewalk. Not because I'm too timid to look at the sky, but because the sidewalk is more interesting.
Some types of sidewalks glitter in the night, while others are matted with dust. Sometimes I kneel down and rub the sidewalk with the tips of my fingers. The grit that clings on is a variety of colors: taupe, slate and charcoal. It isn't a monochrome gray, like everyone believes. Neither are the people who use it.
I step out my door and start ambling through my neighborhood. I see a five-year-old leaning forward on his bike, pedaling furiously while his mother speed walks to catch up. I smile nostalgically, remembering how exhilarating it is to ride a bike swiftly across a bumpy sidewalk. However, I simultaneously cannot help but feel a pang of guilt. Why did we deserve to live so happily while so many others were suffering?
I recall that the most beautiful singer I have ever heard was a homeless man in San Francisco. Despite his unfortunate circumstances, he sang with such sincere passion that I could not help but be touched. When I deposited a dollar in his donation sack, his eyes twinkled and he said "God bless you".
I remember how in India, I once drank a Fanta with my grandfather while sitting on the sidewalk. He told me to leave the unfinished drink there for a thirsty beggar. As I left to board an auto rickshaw, I saw a boy with Kala-azar pick it up. I thought to myself I could have easily been in his place.
A dozen blocks down from my house is the Strawberry Man. He stands by the roadside, rubbing his stomach and pointing to his cartons of fruit, as if to indicate his food is delicious. A few months ago, I bought a carton, and he thanked me with a weary smile. Since then, he has expanded his business to sell watermelon and pineapple. Others are not so fortunate.
I bend down, and examine a clump of sorrel growing in a crack in the sidewalk. I resent it is considered "inferior" to plants-it is a plant; a robust, sturdy one. And people are people.
I understand I'm a lot like the little boy on the bike. Our romanticized memories of the sidewalk probably involve lemonade stands and trips to the park. With the backing of a good education and a nurturing family, we have a good chance at becoming successful in the future. However, to many others, the sidewalk is a place of constant suffering. It is a place where they become anonymous, branded nothing more than "beggar" or "hobo". It becomes difficult to remember that each of them has his own hopes and dreams. I want to help them achieve their aspirations so that they have a chance at becoming a "somebody".
I want to become a traveling doctor and offer free checkups and lemonade to the street singer. I want to take him to First Street and buy him some nice clothes so that he can search for a job. I want to treat the poor Indian boy for his disease and instill in him the hope that he can one day be at least as successful as the Strawberry Man.
I can look at the sky, or the high tops of buildings, but I can't see them in great detail. Quite frankly, they aren't as important. I'm more concerned with making more of the sidewalks glitter.
In what way do you feel you are different from your peers, and how will this shape your contribution to the Notre Dame community?
* Sidewalks?
I like to take walks looking down at the sidewalk. Not because I'm too timid to look at the sky, but because the sidewalk is more interesting.
Some types of sidewalks glitter in the night, while others are matted with dust. Sometimes I kneel down and rub the sidewalk with the tips of my fingers. The grit that clings on is a variety of colors: taupe, slate and charcoal. It isn't a monochrome gray, like everyone believes. Neither are the people who use it.
I step out my door and start ambling through my neighborhood. I see a five-year-old leaning forward on his bike, pedaling furiously while his mother speed walks to catch up. I smile nostalgically, remembering how exhilarating it is to ride a bike swiftly across a bumpy sidewalk. However, I simultaneously cannot help but feel a pang of guilt. Why did we deserve to live so happily while so many others were suffering?
I recall that the most beautiful singer I have ever heard was a homeless man in San Francisco. Despite his unfortunate circumstances, he sang with such sincere passion that I could not help but be touched. When I deposited a dollar in his donation sack, his eyes twinkled and he said "God bless you".
I remember how in India, I once drank a Fanta with my grandfather while sitting on the sidewalk. He told me to leave the unfinished drink there for a thirsty beggar. As I left to board an auto rickshaw, I saw a boy with Kala-azar pick it up. I thought to myself I could have easily been in his place.
A dozen blocks down from my house is the Strawberry Man. He stands by the roadside, rubbing his stomach and pointing to his cartons of fruit, as if to indicate his food is delicious. A few months ago, I bought a carton, and he thanked me with a weary smile. Since then, he has expanded his business to sell watermelon and pineapple. Others are not so fortunate.
I bend down, and examine a clump of sorrel growing in a crack in the sidewalk. I resent it is considered "inferior" to plants-it is a plant; a robust, sturdy one. And people are people.
I understand I'm a lot like the little boy on the bike. Our romanticized memories of the sidewalk probably involve lemonade stands and trips to the park. With the backing of a good education and a nurturing family, we have a good chance at becoming successful in the future. However, to many others, the sidewalk is a place of constant suffering. It is a place where they become anonymous, branded nothing more than "beggar" or "hobo". It becomes difficult to remember that each of them has his own hopes and dreams. I want to help them achieve their aspirations so that they have a chance at becoming a "somebody".
I want to become a traveling doctor and offer free checkups and lemonade to the street singer. I want to take him to First Street and buy him some nice clothes so that he can search for a job. I want to treat the poor Indian boy for his disease and instill in him the hope that he can one day be at least as successful as the Strawberry Man.
I can look at the sky, or the high tops of buildings, but I can't see them in great detail. Quite frankly, they aren't as important. I'm more concerned with making more of the sidewalks glitter.