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."
Hello! I'm not the best at writing essays, and I really need some outside opinions on my response. I'm worried I didn't answer it correctly. I want to submit this by Nov. 1st and help would be very much appreciated!
I wanted to try something different, and something my mom didn't necessarily approve.
My shoulders ached horribly as I pinned each of my hastily-made braids into tiny buns, and I hoped the hours of pain would prove worthy in the morning. Thankfully, they were, and instead of forcing my hair into a tight ponytail, I could rock the mess of tight springs and coils all over my head.
It was the first day of high school, and a newfound confidence washed over me. The walk from my front door to the bus stop became my personal runway. That is, until my mom commented on my hair.
"Why is all your hair all over that head? It looks messy," she said, astonished.
"It's cute," I replied.
"Alright, that's you looking scruffy," she said with a shrug.
I pursed my lips as I continued out the door. Sure, my hair seemed scruffy, but it was a cute kind of scruffy.
My ethnic hair was kept under the brutal maintenance of my mother. I attended a middle school where majority of my peers were white, and like any other mother, my mom worried about how well I fit in when my hair was "messy and scruffy". Because she couldn't afford a hairdresser, my days always started under the burn of a flat iron she held. I wiggled and whined, wondering if the scalp singes where worth having "normal" hair, and they weren't. Two hours after straightening and my hair returned to its original glory.
Growing frustrated, she made the puff ball my trademark hairstyle. It was painful to pull every strand past the small ponytail holder, but my mom approved of it. It looked neat, and boring. I felt limited, as if my hair was the only way I could express myself, and relay my love for my culture.
With the puff ball, I couldn't get through a single school day without friends and teachers tugging or playing with my hair - without permission, and with no regards for how easy it was to mess it up - or the mentions of how I resembled a five year old. With the mass of hair on the back of my head, I wasn't taken seriously; and there was this swelling impulse in me to break the pony tail holders and let my natural hair free, while expelling the ridicule I received.
My mom wasn't too appreciative of my unrelenting requests to change my hair, despite the daily complaints of teasing and pulling.
"It just won't look right," she exasperated. "When you're in public, you're a representation of me. If people saw your hair all over your head, they'd think I don't take care of you."
"But why they care," I rebuked, "If I like it that way, then that's me."
"Other people don't think like that," she said, her authoritative tone indicating an end to the discussion.
I deflated dramatically onto the floor, still burdened with the problems that came with the puff ball.
Eventually, I moved to the back of every classroom. The tugging and "Aren't you supposed to be in kindergarten?" jokes were repetitive and irritating; most importantly, I didn't feel like the growing young woman my mom claimed me to be. I felt disrespected, and disdain.
And I still was infatuated with natural hair. When I noticed colored women in public, with their hair sticking in a million different directions and how each curl and coil moved with their heads, I wanted to replicate that. There was an air of boldness and uniqueness in those women, which I sought to obtain.
My arrival to high school brought a sense of independence into my life. My school environment is more diverse, and luckily, that prompted my mom to relinquish the hairdressing responsibilities to me. And every morning, before I walk that runway, I make sure my hair is at its kinkiest and its curliest.
Hello! I'm not the best at writing essays, and I really need some outside opinions on my response. I'm worried I didn't answer it correctly. I want to submit this by Nov. 1st and help would be very much appreciated!
I wanted to try something different, and something my mom didn't necessarily approve.
My shoulders ached horribly as I pinned each of my hastily-made braids into tiny buns, and I hoped the hours of pain would prove worthy in the morning. Thankfully, they were, and instead of forcing my hair into a tight ponytail, I could rock the mess of tight springs and coils all over my head.
It was the first day of high school, and a newfound confidence washed over me. The walk from my front door to the bus stop became my personal runway. That is, until my mom commented on my hair.
"Why is all your hair all over that head? It looks messy," she said, astonished.
"It's cute," I replied.
"Alright, that's you looking scruffy," she said with a shrug.
I pursed my lips as I continued out the door. Sure, my hair seemed scruffy, but it was a cute kind of scruffy.
My ethnic hair was kept under the brutal maintenance of my mother. I attended a middle school where majority of my peers were white, and like any other mother, my mom worried about how well I fit in when my hair was "messy and scruffy". Because she couldn't afford a hairdresser, my days always started under the burn of a flat iron she held. I wiggled and whined, wondering if the scalp singes where worth having "normal" hair, and they weren't. Two hours after straightening and my hair returned to its original glory.
Growing frustrated, she made the puff ball my trademark hairstyle. It was painful to pull every strand past the small ponytail holder, but my mom approved of it. It looked neat, and boring. I felt limited, as if my hair was the only way I could express myself, and relay my love for my culture.
With the puff ball, I couldn't get through a single school day without friends and teachers tugging or playing with my hair - without permission, and with no regards for how easy it was to mess it up - or the mentions of how I resembled a five year old. With the mass of hair on the back of my head, I wasn't taken seriously; and there was this swelling impulse in me to break the pony tail holders and let my natural hair free, while expelling the ridicule I received.
My mom wasn't too appreciative of my unrelenting requests to change my hair, despite the daily complaints of teasing and pulling.
"It just won't look right," she exasperated. "When you're in public, you're a representation of me. If people saw your hair all over your head, they'd think I don't take care of you."
"But why they care," I rebuked, "If I like it that way, then that's me."
"Other people don't think like that," she said, her authoritative tone indicating an end to the discussion.
I deflated dramatically onto the floor, still burdened with the problems that came with the puff ball.
Eventually, I moved to the back of every classroom. The tugging and "Aren't you supposed to be in kindergarten?" jokes were repetitive and irritating; most importantly, I didn't feel like the growing young woman my mom claimed me to be. I felt disrespected, and disdain.
And I still was infatuated with natural hair. When I noticed colored women in public, with their hair sticking in a million different directions and how each curl and coil moved with their heads, I wanted to replicate that. There was an air of boldness and uniqueness in those women, which I sought to obtain.
My arrival to high school brought a sense of independence into my life. My school environment is more diverse, and luckily, that prompted my mom to relinquish the hairdressing responsibilities to me. And every morning, before I walk that runway, I make sure my hair is at its kinkiest and its curliest.
